Gone with the Pind
by princeofalmora and priyankita
Summary: Indian adaptation of the American Classic Gone with the Wind. Set in Punjab this is story of a headstrong lady Simran (Scarlett) who is infatuated with her neighbor. Meanwhile a roguish man is equally attracted to her. It may seem seem offensive to people of certain communities but isn't meant to do so its all in good fun so laugh heartily and leave a review 3
1. Chapter 1

**A/n:** The following is a non-profit fan based parody. Gone with the wind is owned by Margaret Mitchell and Mitchell estate. Also this is not meant to offend anyone. Punjabis are not southerners, Biharis are not African-American slaves.

**Summary**: Indian adaptation of the American Classic Gone with the Wind. Set in Punjab this is story of a headstrong lady Simran (Scarlett) who is infatuated with her neighbor. Meanwhile a roguish man is equally attracted to her. It may seem seem offensive to people of certain communities but isn't meant to do so its all in good fun so laugh heartily and leave a review :)

Chapter I

Simran Kaur Hora was not beautiful but she was young energetic, bright peppy charming girl with a figure more charming. Her whole self her pink-white face and her blue-green eyes, demand attention and she got it. No young man in the entire "_Pind_" could resist her, her father Gurdeep Hora would often boast. The house was visited by many of her admirers and today it was the Toor twins' turn.

Seated with Satwinder "Santa" and Balwander "Banta" Singh Toor in the cool shade of the porch of her father's farm house, she looked pretty. Her new green flowered-muslin kurti with Patiala salwar exactly matched the flat-heeled green sandals her father had recently brought her from Jalandhar. The kurti was tight, form fitting showing that she was curvy in all the right places. But for all the decency of her Patiala's covering her legs, hair braided in a guth with paranda tied to its end and dupatta covering her chest, her true self was poorly masked. One look towards her sweetened face and her façade of reserve was blown. Her blue-green eyes were alive so different from the rest of her demeanour, her sweet face and folded hands.

Her mother and her _daima_ had grilled manners and decency into her, moulding her into a sweet little girl that she appeared to be. But they could do little about her eyes, the windows to her soul.

The twins sat on her opposite side, holding their glass of Rohavza – a pink sherbet topped with ice. Nineteen years old, six feet two inches tall, with tanned faces their eyes happy and arrogant.

The gulmohar trees near the porch were in full bloom – and in the setting sun it seemed they were ablaze along with the sky. The twins had parked their bikes there, two bullets identical like there masters.

Although born to the ease of farm life, waited on hand and foot since childhood, the faces of the three on the porch were neither slack nor soft. They had vitality and alertness seen in people who have spent all their lives in the open and troubled their heads very little with dull things in books.

Life in _Suchi Pind_ was simple. A lack of education carried no shame, provided a man was smart in the things that mattered. And raising good crops, riding well, shooting straight, and carrying one's liquor, were the things that mattered.

The twins were accomplished in these practical skills of _pind_ life but equally lacked when it came to bookish knowledge. Their family had more money, more rides, more _biharis_ than anyone else in the _pind_ but the boys had less knowledge than most of their poor farmer neighbors.

It was for this precise reason that Santa and Banta were idling on the porch that April afternoon. They had just been thrown out from the University of Punjab, the third university that had thrown them out in two years; and their older brothers, had come home with them, because they refused to remain at an institution where the twins were not welcome. Santa and Banta considered their latest expulsion a fine joke, and Simran, who had not willingly opened a book since leaving St Joseph's school for girls the year before, thought it just as amusing as they did.

"I know you two don't care about being expelled or Tegh either," she said. "But what about Bhod? He's intelligent, and you two have pulled him out of the University of Delhi and IP and now Punjab. He'll never get finished at this rate."

"Oh, it don't matter much. We'd have had to come home before the term was out anyway," answered Banta carelessly.

"Why?"

"The war, stupid! The war's going to start any day, and you don't suppose any of us would stay in college with a war going on, do you?"

"You know there isn't going to be any war," said Simran, bored. "It's all just talk. Why, Joy Wahla and his father told Papa just last week that our commissioners in Delhi would come to—to—a—amicable agreement with Mr Gandhi about Khalistan. And anyway, the Indians are too scared of us to fight. There won't be any war, and I'm tired of hearing about it."

"Not going to be any war!" cried the twins indignantly, as though they had been cheated.

"Why, darling, of course there's going to be a war," said Santa. "The Indians may be scared of us, but after the way General Bisan Singh shelled them out of Gobindgarh Fort day before yesterday, they'll have to fight or be labeled as cowards before the whole world. Why, Khalistan—"

Simran made a face of bored impatience. "If you say 'war' just once more, I'll go in the house and shut the door. I've never gotten so tired of any one word in my life as 'war. Papa talks war morning, noon and night, and all the gentlemen who come to see him shout about Gobindgarh Fort and States' Rights and Sanjay Gandhi and I get so bored. And that's all the boys talk about, too, that and their old Troop. There hasn't been any fun at any party this spring because the boys can't talk about anything else. If you say 'war' again, I'll go inside."

"War," cried both twins in unison and Simran stood up.

"Hey Simran," said Banta, "don't go."

"Yeah, we were just kidding," added Santa, "sorry for boring you."

Simran smiled, flashing her dimple and fluttering her bristly black lashes as swiftly as butterflies' wings. Apology accepted and with that she went back with interest to their immediate situation.

"What did your mother say about you two being expelled again?" The boys looked uncomfortable, recalling their mother's conduct three months ago when they had come home, thrown out, from Delhi University.

"Well," said Santa, "she hasn't had a chance to say anything yet. Tegh and us left home early this morning before she got up, and Tegh's over at the Pahwas while we came over here."

"And last night when you guys came home?"

"We were lucky last night. Just before we got home that new stallion Ma brought last month was brought in, and the place was a mess. The big brute—he's a grand horse. He has trampled two of Ma's biharis who went to railway station. And just before we got home, he'd about kicked the stable down. Ma was out in the stable with a sack full of sugar smoothing him down and doing it mighty well, too. The Biharis were doing nothing just watching from far, they were so scared. And when she saw us she said: 'What are you four doing home again?!' And then the horse began snorting and rearing and she said: 'Get out of here! Can't you see I'm busy? I'll see you four in the morning!' So we went to bed, and this morning we got away before she could catch us and left Bodh to handle her."

"Do you suppose she'll hit Bodh?" asked Simran for Bani Toor would often cane her grown up sons when she thought they deserved it. Bani was a busy woman, having on her hands not only a large farm, a hundred bihari labourers and seven children, but the largest horse-breeding farm in the district as well. She was hot-tempered and easily overwhelmed by the frequent problems of her four sons.

"Of course she won't hit Bodh. She never did beat Bodh much because he's the oldest and the smartest," said Stuart, "That's why we left him at home to explain things to her. Ma should stop beating us! We're nineteen and Tom's twenty-one, and she acts like we're six years old."

"Will your mother rides the new horse to the _Baisakhi_ meet at Walias' tomorrow?" "She wants to, but dad says he's too dangerous. And, anyway, the girls won't let her. They said they were going to have her go to one party at least like a lady. So they'll take the car."

It was getting late, the twins realized with a start. It was time to go home but idea of facing their mother was scary. So in hopes of being invited for dinner they stayed a bit longer.

"Now about tomorrow you'll sit with us at the Baisaki meet in the morning right?" asked Banta.

"I don't know, Raman and Charan want to sit with me too," replied Simran.

"Screw the Chalwlas, you will sit with us. We'll sit on the stair landing like we did last time and get Dai Jind to come and read our palms again."

"That Jind knows nothing about palm history. You know she said I was going to marry a man a lot older than me. I don't want to marry someone old."

Banta laughed, "You won't marry someone old, and you'll marry someone your age."

Santa winked and added, "Now, promise to sit with us. If you'll promise, we'll tell you a secret."

"What?" cried Simran, alert as a child at the word.

"Is it what we heard yesterday in Atlanta, Santa? If it is, you know we promised not to tell."

"Well, Saara _Aunty_ told us."

"_Aunty?"_

"You know, Joy Wahla's masi* who lives in Jalandhar, Saara Hundal —Chanan and Manpreet's bua*."

"I do, and I never met a stupider old lady."

"Well, when we were in Atlanta yesterday, waiting for the home train, her carriage went by the depot and she stopped and talked to us, and she told us there was going to be an engagement announced tomorrow night at the Wahla's."

"Oh. I know about that," said Scarlett in disappointment. "That stupid Chanan and Sweetie Wahla. Everybody's known for years that they'd get married some time, even if he did seem kind of unexcited about it."

"Do you think he's stupid?" questioned Banta. "Last Diwali you sure let him be around you a lot."

"That's not my fault," Scarlett shrugged negligently. "I think he's an awful girly."

"Besides, it isn't his engagement that's going to be announced," said Santa delightedly. "It's Joy's to Chanan's sister, Manpreet!"

Simran's face paled, she was shocked, stunned, stupefied. She stared at Santa, who took it for granted that she was merely surprised and very interested. "Saara _aunty_ told us they hadn't intended announcing it till next year, because Marnpreet hasn't been very well; but with all the war talk going around, everybody in both families thought it would be better to get married soon. So it's to be announced tomorrow night. Now, Simran, we've told you the secret, so you've got to promise to sit with us during the night."

"Of course I will," Simran said automatically.

"You're sweet! I'll bet the other boys will be so upset."

"Let 'em be," said Banta with a smirk. "We two can handle 'm, and what about the morning?"

"I'll be with you," Simran said tonelessly her mind far away but the twins did not care; they were delighted but a little surprised. Although they considered themselves Scarlett's favorites, they had never before gained tokens of this favor so easily. Usually she made them beg and plead, while she put them off, refusing to give a Yes or No answer, laughing if they sulked, and growing cool if they became angry. And here she had practically promised them the whole of tomorrow. This was worth getting thrown out from the university.

Filled with new enthusiasm by their success, they lingered on, talking about the tomorrow night and Joy Wahla and Manpreet Hundal, interrupting each other, making jokes and laughing at them, hinting broadly for invitations to dinner. Some time had passed before they realized that Simran was very quiet. The atmosphere had somehow changed. Just how, the twins did not know, Simran seemed to be paying little attention to what they said, although she said the right things. Sensing something they could not understand, baffled and annoyed by it, the twins struggled along for a while, and then rose reluctantly, looking at their watches.

The sun was low across the new-ploughed fields and the tall woods were looming blackly in silhouette. The boys took their final farewell by telling Simran they'd be over at the Wahlas' early in the morning, waiting for her. They then mounted their bikes and rode away.

When they were a little away, Banta stopped his bike; Santa too quickly used his breaks to halt his bike, which stopped a good 2-3 m away from his twin.

"Look," he said. "Don't it look to you like she would have asked us to stay for dinner?"

"I thought she would," said Santa. "I kept waiting for her to do it, but she didn't. What do you make of it?"

"I don't make anything of it. But it just looks to me like she might of. After all, it's our first day home and she hasn't seen us in quite a spell. And we had lots more things to tell her."

"It looked to me like she was mighty glad to see us when we came and then, about a half-hour ago, she got kind of quiet, like she had a headache."

"I noticed that but I didn't pay it any mind then. What do you suppose ailed her?"

"I dunno. Do you suppose we said something that made her mad?" They both thought for a minute.

"I can't think of anything but Joy and Manpreet's engagement," said Banta, "she got quieter when we told her that."

"I thought she was shocked," Santa said.

"But I don't see why this would make her mad. Joy don't mean anything to her, 'cept a friend. She's not crazy about him. It's us she's crazy about."

Santa nodded in agreement. "But do you suppose," he said, "that maybe Joy hadn't told her he was going to announce it tomorrow night and she was mad at him for not telling her, an old friend, before he told everybody else? Girls set a big store on knowing such things first."

"Well, maybe. But what if he hadn't told her it was tomorrow? It was supposed to be a secret and a surprise? We wouldn't have known it if Manpreet's bua hadn't let it out. But Scarlett must have known he was going to marry Manpreet sometime. Why, we've known it for years. The Wahlas and Hundals always marry their own cousins."

"Well, I give it up. But I'm sorry she didn't ask us for dinner. I swear I don't want to go home and listen to Ma take on about us being expelled. It isn't as if this was the first time."

"Maybe Bodh will have smoothed her down by now. You know what a smooth talker that little rascal is. You know he always can smooth her down."

"Yes, he can do it, but it takes Bodh time. He has to talk around in circles till Ma gets so confused that she gives up and tells him to save his voice for his law practice. But he ain't had time to get good started yet. Why, I'll bet you Ma is still so excited about the new horse that she'll never even realize we're home again till she sits down to supper tonight and sees Bodh. And before supper is over she'll be going strong and breathing fire. And it'll be ten o'clock before Boyd gets a chance to tell her that it wouldn't have been right for any of us to stay in college after the way the Director talked to you and me. And it'll be midnight before he gets her turned around to where she's so mad at the Director she'll be asking Boyd why he didn't shoot him. No, we can't go home till after midnight."

The twins looked at each other glumly.

"Well, look," said Banta. "Let's go over to the Wahlas'. Joy and the girls' will be glad to have us for dinner."

Satwindwer "Santa" Singh Toor looked a little discomforted. "No, don't let's go there. They'll be in a stew getting ready for the barbecue tomorrow and besides—"

"Oh, I forgot about that," said Banta hastily. "No, don't let's go there."

Santa continued looking uncomfortable even as they rode away from the Wahla's place.

Until the previous summer, Santa had courted Indira Kaur Wahla with the approval of both families and the entire County. The County felt that perhaps the cool and contained Indira would have a quieting effect on him. They fervently hoped so, at any rate. And Santa might have made the match, but Banta had not been satisfied. Banta liked Indira but he thought her mighty plain and tame, and he simply could not fall in love with her himself to keep Santa company. That was the first time the twins' interest had ever diverged, and Banta was resentful of his brother's attentions to a girl who seemed to him not at all remarkable.

Then, last summer at a political speaking in the maidaan of the Gurudwara at Ramamandi, they both suddenly became aware of Simran Kaur Hora. They had known her for years, and, since their childhood, she had been a favourite playmate, for she could run fast and climb trees almost as well as they. But now to their amazement she had become a grown-up young lady and quite the most charming one in the entire world.

They noticed for the first time how her blue- green eyes danced, how deep her dimples were when she laughed. Their clever remarks sent her into merry peals of laughter and, inspired by the thought that she considered them a remarkable pair, they fairly outdid themselves in trying to make her laugh.

It was an unforgettable day in the life of the twins. Thereafter, when they talked it over, they always wondered just why they had failed to notice Simran's charms before. They never arrived at the correct answer, which was that Simran on that day had decided to make them notice. She was unable to endure any man being in love with any woman not herself, and the sight of Indira Wahla and Santa at the speaking had been too much for her predatory nature. Not content with Santa alone, she had set her cap for Banta as well.

Now they were both in love with her, and Indira Wahla and Lipi Kaur, from Beas, whom Banta had been half-heartedly seeing, were far in the back of their minds. Just what the loser would do, should Simran accept either one of them, the twins did not ask. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. For the present they were quite satisfied to be in accord again about one girl, for they had no jealousies between them. It was a situation which interested the neighbours and annoyed their mother, who had no liking for Simran.

Since the day of the speaking, Santa had been uncomfortable in India's presence. Not that Indira ever reproached him or even indicated by look or gesture that she was aware of his abruptly changed allegiance. She was far too graceful to do that. But Santa felt guilty and ill at ease with her. He knew he had made Indira love him and he knew that she still loved him and, deep in his heart, he had the feeling that he did Indira wrong.

He still liked her tremendously and respected her. But, damn it, she was just so plain and boring and always the same, beside Simran's bright and changeable charm.

"Well, let's go over to Charandeep Chawla's and have supper. Simran said Krati was home from Amritsar. Maybe she'll have some news about Gobindgarh Fort that we haven't heard."

"Nah, Krati won't know that. She's a feather head that one. She is only interested in boyfriends and parties."

"Well, it's fun to hear her chatter. And it'll be somewhere to hide out till Ma has gone to bed."

"Hell! I like Krati and she is fun; but I'm damned if I can stand sitting through another meal with that Bangali stepmother of hers."

"Don't be too hard on her, Santa. She means well."

"I'm not being hard on her. I feel sorry for her. She worries so much, trying to do the right thing and make you feel at home, that she always manages to say and do just exactly the wrong thing. And she thinks Punjabis are wild barbarians. She even told Ma so. She's afraid of Punjabis. Whenever we're there she always looks scared to death. She reminds me of a skinny hen perched on a chair, her eyes kind of bright and blank and scared, all ready to flap and squawk at the slightest move anybody makes."

"Well, you can't blame her. You did shoot Charandeep in the leg."

"Well, I was drunk I wouldn't have done it," said Santa. "And Charan didn't mind. Neither did Krati or Raman or Mr Chawala. It was just that Bong stepmother who squalled and said I was a wild barbarian and decent people weren't safe around uncivilized Punjab."

"Well, you can't blame her. She's a Bong; and, after all, you did shoot him and he is her stepson."

"Hell! That's no excuse for insulting me! You are Ma's own blood son, but did she take on that time Tejinder Pahwa shot you in the leg? No, she just sent for old Doc Pahwa to dress it and asked the doctor what ailed Teja's aim. Remember how mad that made Teja?"

Both boys yelled with laughter.

"Ma's is the best!" said Banta with loving approval. "You can always count on her to do the right thing and not embarrass you in front of people."

"Yes, but she's mighty liable to talk embarrassing in front of Father and the girls when we get home tonight," said Santa miserably. "Look, Brent. I guess this means we don't go to Canada."

"Who cares about Canada, there is nothing like our Punjab!"

"Joy Wahla said they had an awful lot of scenery. Joy liked Canada. He's always talking about it."

"Well—you know how the Wahlas are. They are kind of weird. Mother says it's because their grandfather came from Persia. She says Persians set quite a store by music and books."

"They can have 'em. Give me a good horse to ride and my desi daru to drink and a good girl to date and a bad girl to have fun with and anybody can have their Canada… What do we care about missing the Visit? Suppose we were in Canada now, with the war coming on? We couldn't get home soon enough. I'd heap rather go to a war than go to Canada."

"So would I, any day… Look, Banta! I know where we can go for supper. Let's ride across the swamp to Abhey Wadhwa's place and tell him we're all four home again and ready for drill."

"That's an idea!" cried Brent with enthusiasm. "And we can hear all the news of the Troop and find out what color they finally decided on for the uniforms."

"Well he'll know stuff, the troop has elected him lieutenant."

The troop of cavalry had been organized three months before, the very day that Punjab had seceded from India to be Khalistan. The officers were elected by the members, for no one in the County had had any military experience. Everyone liked the four Toor boys and the three Pahwas, but regretfully refused to elect them, because the Toor got drunk too quickly, and the Pahwas had such quick, murderous tempers. Jasjit Singh Wahla was elected captain; because his cool head was counted on to keep some semblance of order. Ramandeep Chawla's made first lieutenant, because everybody liked Raman, and Abhey Wadhwa, a small farmer, was elected second lieutenant. Simar's father, Jagjit Walila, Baba Maan, Jamal Toor, Hardeep Chawla, in fact every rich farmer in the County with the one exception of Angad Manna, had contributed money to completely outfit the Troop, horse and man. The Troop met twice a week in Ramamandi to drill and to pray for the war to begin. The twins had participated in the drills after they got thrown out from IP university but then the shooting incidents happened, where Santa shot Charandeep and Banta got shot by Tejinder. After that they were packed off to Chandigarh to study in Punjab University. They had sorely missed the excitement of the drills while away, and they counted education well lost if only they could ride and yell and shoot off rifles in the company of their friends.

While going to Abhey Wadhwa's place they kept wondering, why didn't Simran ask them to stay?

A/n Chapter 1 done 4150 words …

**Foot note**:

**Daima**- literal meaning of dai is midwife; but _daima_ at times it is used as wet nurse

**Masi**- Aunt; maternal (mother's sister)

**Bua**- Aunt; paternal (father's sister)

**Baisakhi**- is a festival celebrated across the northern Indian subcontinent, especially in the Punjab region by the Sikh community. Significance: The beginning of the harvest season and birth of the Khalsa. It happens around 14th of April.

**Diwali**- the Hindu festival of light; where people light loads of lamps (now of course electric lamps) in and around their homes. Sikhs also celebrate it as "Bandi Chhor Divas," on this day their guru (spiritual leader) was released along with 52 other imprisoned princes. It is celebrated in late October or early November.

The story is set in India in the 1970-80s. A lot of it fictional, like Punjab never seceded from the Indian union to become Khalistan but they wanted to around this time … and it was labeled as terrorism by the government of India. The reason for the formation of Khalistan was religious; as opposed to abolition of slavery in the North South divide.  
Indira Gandhi was the leader of Union of India then, but to avoid confusion; and because I'm scared of her descendants … her son Sanjay Gandhi will be taking her place in this fanfic. (Like Abe Lincon she was also assassinated.)  
Now let's come to Bihar, which is amongst India's poorest states … for a variety of reasons. So a lot of hardworking laborers, farm hands, Rickshaw pullers, masons are from Bihar, especially in Punjab which is a prosperous state in present times (I'm not sure about the 70s). People from Bihar Are called bhiaris though their skin is usually darker than their Punjabi counterparts, skin color not an effective way to distinguish between them. Usually in North India most people have wheat brown color, some are lighter others darker. Language and accent is a better way of segregation. Punjabi's speak Punjabi and Bihari speak Hindi with a strong accent/ Bhojpuri dialect.

Bong- People from Bengal are refered to as Bengali their language is Bangla, Bong is an informal way of revering to them sometimes considered derogatory.

Please review

xox


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The following is a non-profit fan based parody. Gone with the wind is owned by Margaret Mitchell and Mitchell estate. Also this is not meant to offend anyone.

**Summary**: Indian adaptation of the American Classic Gone with the Wind. Set in Punjab this is story of a headstrong lady Simran (Scarlett) who is infatuated with her neighbor. Meanwhile a roguish man is equally attracted to her. It may seem seem offensive to people of certain communities but isn't meant to do so its all in good fun so laugh heartily and leave a review :)

**A/n: **So chapter two is up and I've made some changes in chapter one. Nothing major if you don't want to read it I'll write it up for you.  
The Wilkes' Barbeque is now the _Baisakhi_ meet. (**Baisakhi** is a festival celebrated across the northern Indian subcontinent, especially in the Punjab region by the Sikh community. It happens around 14th of April.)  
There are other minor changes, read if you like. Also there is an important foot note for all those who are unable to understand the context.  
It was my birthday on 20th of June, I had great birthday this year unusual because my birthdays are usually unhappy events. I was in particular very happy to see a review for this fiction, by **Joyce LaKee**, thank you so much for that, it gave me strength to continue this fiction. Please keep on reviewing it will mean a lot to me also I will provide a list of characters and there Indian names, eventually until then the main characters and their Indian names are as follows:

**Kate Scarlett O'Hara** – Simran Kaur Hora  
**Rhett K Butler** – Rehat Bhutter  
**George Ashley Wilkes** – Jasjit Singh Wahla (aka Joy)  
**Melanie Hamilton Wilkes** – Manpreet Kaur Hundal

I'm trying* to keep the initials same.

Chapter II

When the twins left Simran standing on the porch and the last sound of bikes' engine rumbling had died away, she went back to her chair like a sleepwalker. Her face felt stiff as from pain and her mouth actually hurt from having stretched it, unwillingly, in smiles to prevent the twins from learning her secret. She sat down wearily, her heart swelled up with misery, until it felt too large for her bosom. It beat with odd little jerks; her hands were cold, and a feeling of disaster oppressed her. She was confused, the confusion of a pampered child who has always had her own way and who now, for the first time, was in contact with the unpleasantness of life.

Joy to marry Manpreet!

Oh, it couldn't be true! The twins were mistaken. They were playing one of their jokes on her. Joy couldn't, couldn't be in love with her. Nobody could, not with a timid little person like Manpreet. Simran recalled with scorn Manpreet's thin childish figure, her serious heart-shaped face that was plain almost to homeliness. And Joy couldn't have seen her in months. He hadn't been in Jalandhar more than twice since the house party he gave last year at Twelve Oaks. No, Joy couldn't be in love with Manpreet, because — oh, she couldn't be mistaken! — Because he was in love with her! She, Simran, was the one he loved — she knew it!

Simran heard her _daimaa's_ lumbering tread shaking the floor of the hall and she hastily tried to rearrange her face in more placid lines. It would never do for her to deduce that anything was wrong. _Daima_ was a dusky old lady with small shrewd eyes, felt that she owned the Horas, body and soul, that their secrets were her secrets; and even a hint of a mystery was enough to set her upon the trail as relentlessly as a bloodhound. Simran knew from experience that, if _daima's_ curiosity were not immediately satisfied, she would take up the matter with Erleen, and then Simran would be forced to reveal everything to her mother, or think up some plausible lie.

_Daimaa_ emerged from the hall, a huge old woman with the small, shrewd eyes. She was dusky, devoted to her last drop of blood to the Horas, Erleen's tower of strength, the despair of her three daughters, the terror of the other house servants. She had been raised in the bedroom of Solam Rangi, Erleen Hora's mother, a dainty, cold, high-nosed woman, who spared neither her children nor her servants their just punishment for any infringement of decorum. She had been Erleen's _aya_* and had come with her from Chandigarh to the _Pind_ when she married. Whom _Daimaa_ loved, she disciplined. And, as her love for Simran and her pride in her were immeasurable, the disciplining process was practically continuous.

"Why didn't you ask them to stay for dinner, Simran? I told Pappu to lay two extra plates for them. Where are your manners?"

"Oh, I was so tired of hearing them talk about the war that I couldn't have endured it through dinner, especially with Papa joining in and shouting about Mr. Gandhi."

"You got no manners what will your mother say! Now come on in the house, Simran."

Simran turned away from her _Daimaa_ with calculated indifference, thankful that her face had been unnoticed.

"No, I want to sit here and watch the sunset. It's so pretty. Please, _Dai_, and I'll sit here till Papaji comes home."

Dai waddled back into the hall.

Simran heard the stairs groan and she got softly to her feet. When _dai_ returned she would resume her lecture on Simran's breach of hospitality, and Simran felt that she could not endure a lecture on such unimportant stuff when her heart was breaking. As she stood, hesitant, wondering where she could hide until the ache in her breast subsided a little; a thought came to her, bringing a small ray of hope. Her father had ridden over to Barahkhaba, the Wahla's place, that afternoon to offer to get Dilaram, the wife of his manservant, Pappu. Dilaram was head woman and _dai_ at Barahkhamba*, and, since the marriage six months ago, Pork had deviled his master night and day to ask the Wahlas to let Dilaram leave work there, so the two could live on the same plantation. That afternoon, Gerald, his resistance worn thin, had set out to do the same.

Surely, thought Simran, Papa will know whether this terrible news is true. Even if he hasn't actually heard anything this afternoon, perhaps he's noticed something, sensed some excitement in the Wahla family. If I can just see him privately before dinner, perhaps I'll find out the truth — that it's just one of the twins' nasty practical jokes.

It was time for Gurdeep's return and, if she expected to see him alone, there was nothing for her to do except meet him where the driveway entered the road. She went quietly down the front steps, looking carefully over her shoulder to make sure Dai was not observing her from the upstairs windows. Seeing nobody peering disapprovingly from between fluttering curtains, she sped down the path toward the driveway as fast as her small ornamented _juttis*_ would carry her.

The fiery Gulmohar trees on either side of the graveled drive and soon she was behind one them, she knew she was safe from observation from the house and she stopped. Flushed and breathing hard, she stood to wait for her father.

It was past time for him to come home, but she was glad that he was late. The delay would give her time to quiet her breathing and calm her face so that his suspicions would not be aroused. Every moment she expected to hear the pounding of his horse's hooves and see him come charging up the hill at his usual breakneck speed. But the minutes slipped by and Gurdeep did not come. She looked down the road for him, the pain in her heart swelling up again.

"Oh, it can't be true!" she thought. "Why doesn't he come?"

Her eyes followed the winding road. In her thought she traced its course to the sluggish Rivulet, through the tangled swampy bottoms and up to Barahkhamba where Joy lived. That was all the road meant now — a road to Joy and the beautiful domed house.

"Oh, Joy! Joy!" she thought, and her heart beat faster.

Some of the cold sense of bewilderment and disaster that had weighted her down since the Toor boys told her their gossip was pushed into the background of her mind, and in its place crept the feeling that had possessed her for two years.

It seemed strange now that when she was growing up Joy had never seemed so very attractive to her. In childhood days, she had seen him come and go and never given him a thought. But since that day two years ago when Joy, newly home from Canada, for four years he had studied there. He had called to visit his dear neighbors, she had loved him. It was as simple as that.

She had been on the front porch and he had ridden up, dressed in gray jacket with a blue tie setting off his crisp white shirt to perfection. Even now, she could recall each detail, how brightly his boots shone, his golden ear ring- which he wore in just one ear. He had quickly climbed up the porch steps and stood looking up at her, his drowsy hazel eyes wide with a smile, he said, "So you've grown up, Simran." And, he had kissed her hand. And his voice! She would never forget the leap of her heart as she heard it, as if for the first time, soft, slow, resonant, and musical.

She had wanted him, in that first instant, wanted him as simply and unreasoningly as she wanted food to eat, clothes to wear and a soft bed on which to lay herself.

For two years he had squired her about the County, to parties, picnics and festivities, never so often as the Toor twins or Charan Chawla, never as persistent as the younger Pahwa boys, but, still, never the week went by that Ashley did not come to see her.

True, he never made love to her, nor did the hazel eyes ever glow with that hot light Simran knew so well in other men. And yet — and yet — she knew he loved her. She could not be mistaken about it. Instinct stronger than reason and knowledge born of experience told her that he loved her. Too often she had surprised him when his eyes were neither drowsy nor remote, when he looked at her with a yearning and a sadness which puzzled her. She KNEW he loved her. Why did he not tell her so? That she could not understand. But there were so many things about him that she did not understand.

He was polite, but detached, distant. No one could ever tell what he was thinking about, Simran least of all. In a neighborhood where everyone said exactly what he thought as soon as he thought it, Joy's quality of reserve was exasperating. He was as proficient as any of the other young men in the usual pastimes, hunting, gambling, _bhagra_* and politics, and was the best rider of them all; but he differed from all the rest in that these pleasant activities were not the end and aim of life to him. And he stood alone in his interest in books and music and his fondness for writing poetry.

Oh, why was he so handsome, so politely detached, so maddeningly boring with his talk about World outside and books and music and poetry and things that interested her not at all — and yet so desirable? Night after night, when Simran went to bed after sitting on the front porch in the semi-darkness with him, she tossed restlessly for hours and comforted herself only with the thought that the very next time he saw her he certainly would propose. But the next time came and went, and the result was nothing — nothing except that the fever possessing her rose higher and hotter.

She loved him and she wanted him and she did not understand him. She was as forthright and simple as the winds, and to the end of her days she would never be able to understand a complexity. And now, for the first time in her life, she was facing a complex nature.

For Joy was born of a line of men who used their leisure for thinking, not doing, for spinning brightly colored dreams that had in them no touch of reality. He moved in an inner world that was more beautiful than Punjab and came back to reality with reluctance. He looked on people, and he neither liked nor disliked them. He looked on life and was neither heartened nor saddened. He accepted the universe and his place in it for what they were and, shrugging, turned to his music and books and his better world.

Why he should have captivated Simran when his mind was a stranger to hers she did not know. The very mystery of him excited her curiosity like a door that had neither lock nor key. The things about him which she could not understand only made her love him more, and his odd, restrained courtship only served to increase her determination to have him for her own. That he would propose some day she had never doubted, for she was too young and too spoiled ever to have known defeat. And now, like a thunderclap, had come this horrible news. Joy was to marry Manpreet! It couldn't be true!

Why, only last week, when they were riding home at twilight, he had said: "Simran, I have something so important to tell you that I hardly know how to say it."

She had cast down her eyes demurely, her heart beating with wild pleasure, thinking the happy moment had come. Then he had said: "Not now! We're nearly home and there isn't time. Oh, Simran, what a coward I am!" And putting spurs to his horse, he had leaded her quickly to home.

Simran, now leaning on the tree, thought of those words which had made her so happy, and suddenly they took on another meaning, a hideous meaning. Suppose it was the news of his engagement he had intended to tell her!

Oh, if Papa would only come home! She could not endure the suspense another moment. She looked impatiently down the road again, and again she was disappointed.

The sun was now below the horizon and the red glow at the rim of the world faded into pink. The sky above turned slowly from azure to the delicate blue-green, and the unearthly stillness of rural twilight came stealthily down about her. Shadowy dimness crept over the countryside.

In the strange half-light, the tall tress of the swamp, so warmly green in the sunshine, were black against the pastel sky. Across the river, the tall white dome of the Wahla's home faded gradually into the darkness of the thick oaks surrounding them, and only far-off pin points of bulbs showed that a house was here.

Sunset and spring and new-fledged greenery were no miracle to Simran. Their beauty she accepted as casually as the air she breathed and the water she drank, for she had never consciously seen beauty in anything but women's faces, dresses and similar tangible things. Yet the serene half-light over her well-kept acres brought a measure of quiet to her disturbed mind. She loved this land so much, without even knowing she loved it, loved it as she loved her mother's face under the lamp at prayer time.

Still there was no sign of Gerald on the quiet winding road. If she had to wait much longer, Dai would certainly come in search of her and bully her into the house. But even as she strained her eyes down the darkening road, she heard a pounding of hooves. Gurdeep Hora was coming home across country and at top speed.

He came up at a gallop on his thick-barreled, long-legged hunter, appearing in the distance like a boy on a too large horse. His turbaned head standing out behind him, he urged the horse forward with crop and loud cries.

Filled with her own anxieties, she nevertheless watched him with affectionate pride, for Gurdeep was an excellent horseman.

"I wonder why he always wants to jump fences when he's had a few drinks," she thought. "And after that fall he had right here last year when he broke his knee. You'd think he'd learn. Especially when he promised Mother he'd never jump again."

Simran had no awe of her father and felt him more her modern than her sisters, for jumping fences and keeping it a secret from his wife gave him a boyish pride and guilty glee that matched her own pleasure in outwitting daima.

The big horse reached the fence, gathered himself and soared over as effortlessly as a bird, his rider yelling enthusiastically, his crop beating the air, his white curls jerking out behind him. Gurdeep did not see his daughter in the shadow of the trees, and he drew rein in the road, patting his horse's neck with approbation.

"There's none in the County can touch you, nor in the state," he informed his mount, with pride. Then he hastily set about smoothing his ruffled shirt. Simran knew these hurried groomings were being made to deceive his wife into believing he had ridden calmly home from a visit to a neighbor. She knew also that he was presenting her with just the opportunity she wanted for opening the conversation without revealing her true purpose.

She laughed aloud. As she had intended, Gurdeep was startled by the sound; then he recognized her, and a look both sheepish and defiant came over his face. He dismounted with difficulty, because his knee was stiff, and, slipping the reins over his arm, stumped toward her.

"Well, " he said, pinching her cheek, "so, you've been spying on me and, like your sister Sukhman last week, you'll be telling your mother on me?"

There was indignation in his hoarse bass voice but also a pleading note and Simran teasingly clicked her tongue against her teeth. She then went forward to smooth his white beard most of which had escaped out of the hair net, making it redundant. His breath in her face was strong with whisky mingled with a faint fragrance of mint. Accompanying him also were the smells of chewing tobacco, well-oiled leather and horses — a combination of odors that she always associated with her father and instinctively liked in other men.

"No, Papaji, I'm no big mouth like Sukhman," she assured him, pulling out the redundant hair net and continuing to arrange his beard so as to make it look normal.

Gurdeep was fifty years old and his long curly hair was silver-white usually incased in a turban, but his shrewd face was unlined and his hard little blue eyes were young with the unworried youthfulness of one who has never taxed his brain with problems more abstract than how many cards to draw in a poker game.

Beneath his stern exterior Gurdeep Hora had the tenderest of hearts. He could not bear to see a servant pouting under a scolding, no matter how well deserved, or hear a kitten mewing or a child crying; but he had a horror of having this weakness discovered. That everyone who met him did discover his kindly heart within five minutes was unknown to him; and his vanity would have suffered tremendously if he had found it out, for he liked to think that when he bawled orders at the top of his voice everyone trembled and obeyed. It had never occurred to him that only one voice was obeyed on the plantation — the soft voice of his wife. It was a secret he would never learn, for everyone from Erleen down to the stupidest field hand was in a tacit and kindly conspiracy to keep him believing that his word was law.

Simran was impressed less than anyone else by his tempers and his roars. She was his oldest child and, now that Gurdeep knew there would be no more sons to follow the three who were long dead, he had drifted into a habit of treating her in a man-to-man manner which she found most pleasant. She was more like her father than her younger sisters, for Kiran, who had been born Kirandeep Kaur, was delicate and dreamy, and Sukhman Kaur, prided herself on her elegance and ladylike deportment.

Moreover, Simran and her father were bound together by a mutual suppression agreement. If Gurdeep caught her climbing a fence instead of walking half a mile to a gate, or sitting too late on the front steps with a beau, he scolded her personally, but he did not mention the fact to Erleen. And when Simran discovered him jumping fences breaking his promise to his wife, or learned the exact amount of his losses at poker, as she always did from County gossip, she refrained from mentioning the fact at the supper table unlike Sukhman. Simran and her father each assured the other solemnly that to bring such matters to the ears of Erleen would only hurt her and that they did not want to wound her gentleness.

Simran looked at her father in the fading light, and, without knowing why, she found it comforting to be in his presence.

"You look very presentable now," she said, "and I don't think anyone will suspect you've been up to your tricks unless you brag about them. But it does seem to me that after you broke your knee last year, jumping that same fence —"

"Well, may I be damned if I'll have me own daughter telling me what I shall jump and not jump," he shouted, giving her cheek another pinch. "It's me own neck, so it is. And besides, what are you doing out here?"

Seeing what he was doing to extricate himself from unpleasant conversation, she slipped her arm through his and said: "I was waiting for you. I didn't know you would be so late. I just wondered what happened to Dilaram, will she be working for us now?"

"Yes, She and her little wench, Pinky."

"Pinky! I know her. She's a sly, stupid creature," Simran.

"Well, Pinky is too young to work on her own, without her mother?," said Gurdeep, "Well, come on, _Billo_, let's go in to supper."

The shadows were falling thicker now, the last greenish tinge had left the sky and a slight chill was displacing the balminess of spring. But Simran loitered, wondering how to bring up the subject of Joy without permitting Gurdeep to suspect her motive. This was difficult, for Simran had not a subtle bone in her body; and Gurdeep was so much like her he never failed to penetrate her weak subterfuges, even as she penetrated his. And he was seldom tactful in doing it.

"How are they all over at Barahkhamba?"

"About as usual."

Simran sighed. She began in with another line.

"Did they say anything about tomorrow, baisakhi?"

"Now that I think of it they did. Miss — what's-her-name — the sweet little thing who was here last year, you know, Joy's cousin — oh, yes, Manpreet Hundal, that's the name — she and her brother Chanan have already come from Jalandhar and —"

"Oh, so she did come?"

"She did, and a sweet quiet thing she is. Come now, daughter, don't lag. Your mother will be hunting for us."

Simran's heart sank at the news. She had hoped against hope that something would keep Manpreet Hundal in Jalandhar where she belonged, and the knowledge that even her father approved of her sweet quiet nature, so different from her own, forced her into the open.

"Was Joy there, too?"

"He was." Gurdeep let go of his daughter's arm and turned, peering sharply into her face. "And if that's why you came out here to wait for me, why didn't you say so without beating around the bush?"

Simran could think of nothing to say, and she felt her face growing red with annoyance.

"Well, speak up."

Still she said nothing, wishing that it was permissible to shake one's father and tell him to hush his mouth.

"He was there and he asked most kindly after you, as did his sisters, and said they hoped nothing would keep you from the barbecue tomorrow. I'll guarantee nothing will," he said shrewdly. "And now, daughter, what's all this about you and Jasjit?"

"There is nothing," she said shortly, tugging at his arm. "Let's go in, Papaji."

"So now it's you wanting to go in," he observed. "But here I'm going to stand till I understand you. Now that I think of it, it's strange you've been recently. Has he been playing with you? Has he asked to marry you?"

"No," she said shortly.

"Nor will he," said Gurdeep.

Fury flamed in her, but Gurdeep waved her quiet with a hand.

"Hold your tongue, Miss! I had it from Jajit Wahla this afternoon in the strictest confidence that Joy's to marry Manpreet. It's to be announced tomorrow."

Simran's hand fell from his arm. So it was true!

A pain slashed at her heart as savagely as a wild animal's fangs. Through it all, she felt her father's eyes on her, a little pitying, a little annoyed at being faced with a problem for which he knew no answer. He loved Simran, but it made him uncomfortable to have her forcing her childish problems on him for a solution.

"Is it a spectacle you've been making of yourself — of all of us?" he bawled, his voice rising as always in moments of excitement. "Have you been running after a man who's not in love with you, when you could have any of the bucks in the County?"

Anger and hurt pride drove out some of the pain.

"I haven't been running after him. It — it just surprised me."

"It's lying you are!" said Gurdeep, and then, peering at her stricken face, he added in a burst of kindliness: "I'm sorry, daughter. But after all, you are nothing but a child and there are other."

"Mother was only eighteen when she married you, and I'm nineteen," said Simran, her voice muffled.

"Your mother was different," said Gerald. "She was never flighty like you. Now come, cheer up, and I'll take you to Amritsar next week to visit your _Masi _and the golden templeand, what with the entire hullabaloo they are having over there about Gobindgarh Fort, you'll be forgetting about Joy in a week."

"He thinks I'm a child," thought Simran, grief and anger choking utterance, "and he's only got to dangle a new toy and I'll forget my bumps."

"Now, don't be jerking your chin at me," warned Gurdeep. "If you had any sense you'd have married Satwindar or Balwinder Toor long ago. Think it over, daughter. Marry one of the twins and Jamail Toor and I will build you a fine house, right where our lands join and —"

"Will you stop treating me like a child!" cried Simran. "I don't want to go to Amritsar or have a house or marry the twins. I only want —" She caught herself but not in time.

Gurdeep's voice was strangely quiet and he spoke slowly as if drawing his words from a store of thought seldom used.

"It's only Joy you're wanting, and you'll not be having him. And if he wanted to marry you, 'twould be with misgivings that I'd say Yes, for all the fine friendship that's between me and Jagjit Wahla." And, seeing her startled look, he continued: "I want my girl to be happy and you wouldn't be happy with him."

"Oh, I would! I would!"

"That you would not, daughter. Only when like marries like can there be any happiness."

Simran had a sudden treacherous desire to cry out, "But you've been happy, and you and Mother aren't alike," but she repressed it, fearing that he would box her ears for her impertinence.

"Our people and the Wahlas are different," he went on slowly, fumbling for words. "The Wahlas are different from any of our neighbors — different from any family I ever knew. They are abnormal folk, and it's best that they marry their cousins and keep their abnormalties to themselves."

"Why, Papa, Joy is not —"

"Hold your whist, Bilo! I said nothing against the lad, for I like him. And when I say abnormal, it's not mad I'm meaning. He's not mad like the Chawlas who'd gamble everything they have, or the Toors who turn out drunkard, or the Pahwa who are hot-headed little brutes. That kind of madness is easy to understand. But he's strange in other ways, and there's no understanding him at all. I like him, but it's neither heads nor tails I can make of most he says. Now, tell me honestly, do you understand his gibberish about books and poetry and music and oil paintings and such foolishness?"

"If I married him, I'd change all that," cried Simran impatiently,

"Oh, you would, would you now?" said Gerald testily, shooting a sharp look at her. "No wife has ever changed a husband one whit, and don't you be forgetting that. And as for changing a Wahla — God's nightgown, daughter! The whole family is that way, and they've always been that way. And probably always will. Studying abroad and not to simply show off or brag about it. And ordering French and German books by the crates! And there they sit reading and dreaming the dear God knows what, when they'd be better spending their time hunting and playing poker as proper men should."

"There's nobody better at riding than Joy," said Simran, furious that her father was calling Joy girly, " And as for poker, didn't Joy take two hundred dollars away from you just last week in Ramamandi?"

"The Chawla boys have been gossiping again," Gerald said resignedly, "else you'd not know the amount. Joy can do all that, but his hearts not in it. That's why I say he's abnormal."

Simran was silent and her heart sank. She could think of no defense for this last, for she knew her father was right. Joy's heart was in none of the pleasant things he did so well.

Rightly interpreting her silence, Gurdeep patted her arm and said triumphantly: "There now, Simran! You admit it's true. What would you be doing with a husband like Joy?"  
And then, in a wheedling tone: "When I was mentioning the Toors the while ago, I wasn't pushing them. They're fine lads, but if it's Chawla boy you like, why, it's the same with me. And when I'm gone I'll leave Taxila to you and—"

"I wouldn't have him on a silver tray," cried Simran in fury. "And I wish you'd quit pushing him at me! I don't want _Taxila*_ or any land. Land don't amount to anything when —"

She was going to say "when you haven't the man you want," but Gurdeep, incensed by the cavalier way in which she treated his proffered gift; the thing which, next to Ellen, he loved best in the whole world uttered a roar.

"Do you stand there, Simran O'Hara, and tell me that _Taxila_ — that land — doesn't amount to anything?"

Simran nodded obstinately. Her heart was too sore to care whether or not she put her father in a temper.

"Land is the only thing in the world that amounts to anything," he shouted, "for it's the only thing in this world that lasts, and don't you be forgetting it! It's the only thing worth working for, worth fighting for — worth dying for."

"Papaji," she said disgustedly, "you talk like a refugee!"

"Have I ever been ashamed of it? I'm proud of it. And don't be forgetting that you are my daughter! And to anyone who as suffered as I without our homes, money and land in the partition. Why, I offer you the most beautiful land in the world — saving my old village in Multan— and what do you do? You cry!"

Gurdeep would have shouted some more when something in Simran's despairing face stopped him.

"But there, you're young. This will come to you, this love of land. You're just a child. When you're older, you'll be seeing how it's. . . . Now, do you be making up your mind about Chanan or the twins, and see how fine I turn you out!"

Simran was still pouting.

"Now, none of your pouts, Miss. It doesn't matter who you marry, as long as he thinks like you and is a gentleman and a Southerner and prideful. For a woman, love comes after marriage."

"That's such so old fashioned!"

"it is our culture! All this business of running around marrying for love, like servants, like foreigners! The best marriages are when the parents choose for the girl. How you tell a good man from a scoundrel?"

"Oh," cried Simran.

Gurdeep looked at her bowed head and shuffled his feet uneasily.

"Stop crying" he said.

"I'm not crying," she cried vehemently, quickly facing away.

"You are lying, and I'm proud that you are. There's still pride in you. And I want to see pride in you tomorrow. I'll not be having the people gossiping and laughing at you for mooning your heart out about a man who never gave you a thought beyond friendship."

Gurdeep took her arm and passed it through his.

"We'll be going inside now, and all this is between us. We need not tell your mother. Blow your nose."

Simran blew her nose, and they started up the dark drive, the horse following slowly. Near the house, Simran was at the point of speaking again when she saw her mother. She had on her duppata on covering her head, hair in a bun, and behind her was Dai, her face like a thundercloud, holding in her hand the black leather bag in which Erleen Hora always carried the bandages and medicines.

"Mr. Hora," called Erleen as she saw the two coming up the driveway, "There is illness at the Sattee house. Ammu's time has come. She needs help birthing the baby. I am going there with Dia to see what I can do."

Her voice was raised questioningly, as though she hung on Gurdeep's assent to her plan, a mere formality.

Gurdeep helped his wife into the car and gave orders to the driver to drive carefully.

He had already forgotten Simran's heartbreak. Simran slowly climbed the steps after him, her feet leaden. She thought that, after all, a mating between herself and Joy could be no stranger than that of her father and mother.

_As always, she wondered how her loud, insensitive father had managed to marry a woman like her mother, for never were two people further apart in birth, breeding and habits of mind._

**-GwtW-**

Erleen Hora was thirty-five years old, one who had borne six children and buried three. From her mother, whose parents were from Rohtak, had come her slanting dark eyes, shadowed by inky lashes, and her black hair; and from her father, who had fought in the Second World War and then China war before settling in Chandigarh, she had her long straight nose and her square-cut jaw that was softened by the gentle curving of her cheeks. But only from life could Erleen's face have acquired its look of melancholy and its utter lack of humor.

As far back as Simran could remember, her mother had always been the same, her voice soft and sweet whether in praising or in reproving, her manner efficient and unruffled despite the daily emergencies of a turbulent household, her spirit always calm and her back unbowed, even in the deaths of her three baby sons.

She had ever seen her sit down without a bit of needlework in her hands, except at mealtime, while attending the sick or while keeping the books and accounts. It was _phukari*_ if company were present, but at other times her hands were occupied with the families and servants' garments, mending etc. Supervising the cooking, cleaning and all other kinds of works inside the house, all were of course her duty. Apart from that she cared for the sick – not just her own family and servants but for the poor around her home like the Sattees.  
Sometimes Simran wondered if her mother had ever giggled or whispered secrets through long nights to intimate girl friends. But no, that wasn't possible. Mother had always been just as she was a pillar of strength, a fount of wisdom, the one person who knew the answers to everything.

But Simran was wrong, for, years before, Erleen Rangi of Chandigarh had giggled as inexplicably as any seventeen-year-old in that newly planed- somewhat unfinished- city and whispered the long nights through with friends, exchanging confidences, telling all secrets but one. That was the year when Gurdeep Hora, twenty-five years older than she, came into her life — the year, too, when youth and her black-eyed cousin, Pradeep Rangi, went out of it taking with him the glow that was in Erleen's heart and left for Gurdeep who married her, only a gentle shell.

But that was enough for Gurdeep, shocked by the fact that he was actually marrying her. Shrewd man that he was, he knew that it was no less than a miracle that he, a refugee should win the hand of the beautiful Rangi girl.  
In 1947 after British India was divided, into Pakistan and India – riots followed, forcing people to migrate from both sides. Gurdeep Hora was 22 years old then, and had lost most of his family and all of his material wealth when he finally made it to India through Wagha boder. He stayed with his cousins in Amritsar, Jamail and Anand Hora. His education wasn't much … he was literate- he could read and write, and could do basic arithmetic and that was that. He helped his cousins in the wholesale business they had, eventually moved with them to the new city of Chandigarh. Then one night a few years after living in India, on a Diwali night he played _teen patti* _and lady luck favored him, he won every hand by the end of night he had a lot of money. In the morning, his cousins suggested investing the money but Gurdeep wanted to buy land and farm. So he did, brought land in the fertile _doab- _the land between the two rivers. As years passed by – with the help of loans from his cousins – and Gurdeep had green acres that yielded gold, a brick house he called Taxila. Taxila was built without any sense of architecture; rooms were added where ever they were required.

Gurdeep was on excellent terms with all his neighbors in the County, except the Manaas whose land adjoined his on the left and the Sattee whose meager two acres stretched on his right.  
Manaas were Meos - Hindu Rajputs who converted to Islam with Moinuddin Chisti's influence. But to Gurdeep they were no different from the guys who killed his mother brother and sister, burned his house and forced him to flee.  
Manaas kept to themselves, did not socialize with neighbors and did not believe in Khalistan.

Sattees were another matter; they were very poor and had a large family to feed. They lived only because of the charity of there neighbors. But hated these neighbors just the same for they could sense scorn for all there politeness.

After living 7 years in his farm house, he realized he had everything and now needed a wife. So at the age of 32 years he decided he needed a wife, 32 years was not too old. For a man, in his 30s, he is in his prime. But the problem was getting a woman; he had no parents who took care of such stuff, so he went back to Chandigarh to his cousins in hopes of them fixing something for him.

There he met Erleen Rangi, over seventeen years old then. A few months later they were married, despite the difference in there age, status and upbringing. There castes were the same, and there _gotra*_ were different and when Erleen had herself agreed to the match, that was that.

Erleen's mother was dead, her father was a rich man true but Erleen's name was tainted – she had tried to elope with her cousin Pradeep only a year ago. Marrying ones cousin is against the social laws, Pradeep was hacked to death by the elders of the clan. The only reason Erleen was safe was because of her father who had pleaded her case, saying she was just a child. Erleen was pardoned but she was already dead – her spirit departed with Pradeep's soul. She hated everyone and wanted to die – leave her home and go far away. So when a chance came to do the same in form of Gurdeep Hora she took it- married him and left her home for his home in the doab.

She brought with her – amongst other things in her dowry – her old aya, who stood steadfastly with her in the darkest moments of her life. The two of them transformed Taxila, the brick house into a home.

The next year, their first child was born and they named her Simran, after Gurdeep's mother. Gurdeep was disappointed, for he had wanted a son, but he nevertheless was pleased enough over his small black-haired daughter to host a huge party for her.

When Simran was a year old, and more healthy and vigorous than a girl baby had any right to be, in Dai's opinion, their second child, named Sukhman, was born, and in due time came Kirandeep Kaur. Then three little boys followed, who all died before they learned to walk.

And now so many years later the past – it all seems like a dream. Simran wanted to be like her mother who she loved so but being kind, gentle and hardworking was so boring and seemed no fun at all. "May be one day when I'm married to Joy," she though …

**A/n:** Chapter II done! Its 1:48 am, here now. I will post it…

It was actually taxing, and although I have the story Indianizing it. Sometimes the names confuse me. I try to keep them similar, initials at least… like Erleen are Eleen and Indira is India.  
Jasjit Singh Wahal is George Ashley Wilkes simply because of the name Ashley which is androgynus, now in Punjab most names are thus: Kiran could be a guy or a girl, similarly Gurdeep, Sukhman can be a man's name or a woman's. Now I know a Jasjit (he is nothing like Ashley) who's called Joy at home and as kids we used to tease him about how Joy is a girl's name.  
Ashley's sister Honey will be called Sweetie, because while Honey actually a name in Punjab (google Honey Singh) it's not an endearment- not used that much, Sweetie meanwhile is. It is also a name.  
Gerald the Irishman, quite a central character in book … land is the only thing that last n stuff, I had to rack my brain to replace him and his story. Now we have Gurdeep from West Punjab, now in Pakistan.  
The partition of India was the partition of British India on the basis of religious demographics. This led to the creation of the sovereign states of the Dominion of Pakistan and the Union of India. It was a traumatic event for everyone who had to move there homes; leave there houses businesses and land.  
**Footnote: **

**Aya**-Hindi word for Nursemaid, I imagine a young Dai was Erleen's nursemaid, later when Erleen got older she became a midwife n hence the title of _dai_; she probably helped with Erleen's pregnancy and now will be helping with Scarlett's too.  
**Juttis**- is a type of footwear of Punjabi origin. They are traditionally made up of leather and with extensive embroidery, in real gold and silver thread in olden days.

**Taxila- **A world heritage site in Pakistan now, also the name of the Hora home and it may denote the farms as well. Can be compared with Tara but unlike Tara it is not a plantation or name of the plantation.

**Barahkhamba**- literally meaning 12 pillars; it's the Wahla's home. It can be compared with the Twelve Oaks only Twelve Oaks was a plantations name. Its architectural style is _Indo_-_Saracenic_ Revival (Neo-Mughal).

**Teen Patti** – literally "three cards" in English (also known as Flash or Flush) is a gambling card game that originated in India and became popular in South Asia.  
**Gotra** -It means clan. It broadly refers to people who are descendants in an unbroken male line from a common male ancestor. Marriages within the gotra ('sagotra' marriages) are not permitted, but marriage occurs only within caste. There have been a lot of honor killings even recently (especially in Haryana – google it if you want to ) due to people being in love are from the same gotra.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The following is a non-profit fan based parody. Gone with the wind is owned by Margaret Mitchell and Mitchell estate. Also this is not meant to offend anyone.

**Summary**: Indian adaptation of the American Classic Gone with the Wind. Set in Punjab this is story of a headstrong lady Simran (Scarlett) who is infatuated with her neighbor. Meanwhile a roguish man is equally attracted to her. It may seem seem offensive to people of certain communities but isn't meant to do so its all in good fun so laugh heartily and leave a review :)

**A/n**: I was thinking since this is bollywoodmaybe actors ought to be assigned:  
**Kate Sarclett O'Hara** – Simran Kaur Hora  
I thought of Ashwarya Rai, but she is too old to pay a 19yr old. My next choice would have been Kareena Kapoor who is old too, but a younger her could have totally rocked the role.  
**Rhett K Butler** – Rehat Bhutter.  
Salman Khan, especially in his Dabbang look could easily be the Indian Rhett. He is annoying enough on screen.  
**George Ashley Wilkes** – Jasjit Singh Wahla  
I would like it to be Shah Rukh Khan, because he can look so go when he wants to and equally bad. Only SRK will not act with Salman because of there feud.  
**Melanie Hamilton Wilkes** – Manpreet Kaur Hundal  
A young Rani Mukharji would look so like Melly with her brown eyes, short height and good acting.

Thanks **Joyce LaKee**, for the review. Others you guys can review too.

Now on with the story:

**Previously:**

And now so many years later the past – it all seems like a dream. Simran wanted to be like her mother who she loved so but being kind, gentle and hardworking was so boring and seemed no fun at all. "May be one day when I'm married to Joy," she though …

Chapter III

Dai and Erleen had not returned by dinner as predicted. It was Simran's job to oversee the setting of the table and insure the meal was served at a proper time. Most houses did not have dining tables. A lot of houses still ate inside the kitchen, sitting either on floor cross-legged or in a small stool. Some people ate sitting in divans*. In fact the only other house Simran knew to own a dining table was the Wahlas.

The dining table at her home was due to Erleen who was a modern young lady from Chandigarh when she married Gurdeep.

Usually Erleen would send the message of dinner being ready before the table being set, but Simran more focused on getting the task done didn't until it was. The resultant, Sukhman was late. Kiran and Gudeep had arrived on time, luckily for Simran, and had to wait for almost 15 minutes. Gurdeep scolded Sukhman quite a bit and then dinner was started. Throughout dinner Sukhman glowered at Simran, this was her fault Sukhman was sure. It was so unfair Simran was loved not only by all of the boys; she was also their father's favourate.

Simran was waiting for her mother to come back ignored Sukhman. She was still heartbroken and lost. Of course, she did not intend to tell her mother what was so heavy on her heart, for Erleen would be shocked and grieved to know that a daughter of hers wanted a man who was betrothed to another girl. But, in the depths of the first tragedy she had ever known, she wanted the very comfort of her mother's presence. She always felt secure when Erleen was by her, for there was nothing so bad that Erleen could not better it, simply by being there.

Gurdeep on the other hand had forgotten all about the conversation was talking about the war and politics to no one in particular, though Kiran nodded politely time to time. This way the dinner continued smoothly and came to an end. Servants under Simran's supervision cleared the table and served the desert –_gajar ka halwa_*.

When the family was almost finished with the desert, Pappu, Gurdeep's man-servant came in.

"_Sahib_*," he said, his face glowing, "you're new servant has come."

"Well, bring in the bride," said Gurdeep, and Pappu, turning, beckoned into the hall to his wife, newly arrived from the Wahla. She entered, and behind her, came her twelve-year-old daughter, squirming against her mother's legs.

DilAram bore herself erectly. She might have been any age from thirty to sixty, so unlined was her expressionless face. Nepali blood was plain in her features, overbalancing the bihari characteristics. The yellowish color of her skin, narrow high forehead, prominent cheek bones and the flat nose which flattened and tiny eyes, all showed the mixture of two races.

When she spoke her voice had an accent different from other servants, voice less musical and more clear. Only when she spoke words with sound "s" in close proximity with "sh" was there some sliping of tongue, unlike bhiharis who use 'ss' indeed of 'sh' or 'bh' instead of 'v' amongst other grammatical mistakes.

"Good Evening Sir, I have arrived though a bit later and I'm sorry, the Wahlas needed help with tomorrow's preparation but am glad to be serving you now and living in with Pappu at the out house. Our family is now complete and I have you to thank."

DilAram was the head servant in the Wahla house and; they were much dependent on her. Pappu had wanted DilAram to live with him for a long time but the Wahlas simply didn't wish to part with her and it was only after Gurdeep went and spoke on behalf of Pappu was she relieved from her services there. In exchange two servants from their household were now serving Wahlas.

Dilcey turned to Simran and something like a smile wrinkled the corners of her eyes. "Miss Simran, Pappu told me how you ask Sahib to get me. And so I'm gonna give you my Preeti as your own maid."

She reached behind her and jerked the little girl forward. She was a brown little creature, with skinny legs and a myriad of pigtails carefully wrapped with twine sticking stiffly out from her head. She had sharp, knowing eyes that missed nothing and a studiedly stupid look on her face.

"Thank you, DilAram," Simran replied, "but I'm afraid Dai will have something to say about that. She's been my maid ever since I was born."

"Dai is old," said DilAram, with a calmness that would have enraged Dai. "She is a Dai, but you a young lady now and needs a good maid, and my Preeti been Indira _ji's*_ maid for a year now. She can sew and fix hair good as a grown woman."

Prodded by her mother, Preeti folded her hand and grinned at Simran, who could not help grinning back.

"A sharp little wench," she thought, and said aloud: "Thank you, DilAram, we'll see about it when Mother comes home."

Sukhman was jealous already but she tried not to show it, and buried herself in stitching. Kiran was reading some Mills and Boon romance novel that Simran didn't care for. Simran supervised the clearing of the table after desert.

They waited for a while for Erleen to return. Time seemed to tic away and Simran felt worse with every passing moment. If only mother was here to comfort me. Wouldn't Mother ever come home?

Then, wheels ground sharply on the graveled driveway, and the soft murmur of Erleen's voice dismissing the driver floated into the room. The whole group looked up eagerly as she entered rapidly, her face tired and sad. There entered with her the faint fragrance of jasmine, which seemed always to creep from the folds of her dresses, a fragrance that was always linked in Simran's mind with her mother. Dai followed at a few paces, the leather bag in her hand. She muttered darkly to herself as she waddled, taking care that her remarks were pitched too low to be understood but loud enough to register her unqualified disapproval.

"I am sorry I am so late," said Erleen, slipping her plaid shawl from drooping shoulders and handing it to Simran, whose cheek she patted in passing.

Gurdeep's face had brightened as if by magic at her entrance.

"Is the brat born?" he questioned.

"Yes, and dead, poor thing," said Erleen. "I feared Ammu would die too, but I think she will live."

The girls' faces turned to her, startled and questioning and Gurdeep wagged his head philosophically.

"Well, 'tis better so that the brat is dead, no doubt, poor father le —"

"It is late. We had better go to sleep," interrupted Erleen so smoothly that, if Simran had not known her mother well, the interruption would have passed unnoticed.

It would be interesting to know who the father of Ammu's baby was, but Simran knew she would never learn the truth of the matter if she waited to hear it from her mother. Simran suspected Jogi Waghela, for she had frequently seen him walking down the road with Ammu at nightfall. Jogi was a Guju and a bachelor, and the fact that he was an overseer forever barred him from any contact with the County social life. There was no family of any standing into which he could marry, no people with whom he could associate except the Sattees and riffraff like them. As he was several cuts above the Sattees in education, it was only natural that he should not want to marry Ammu, no matter how often he might walk with her in the twilight.

Simran sighed, for her curiosity was sharp. Things were always happening under her mother's eyes which she noticed no more than if they had not happened at all. Erleen ignored all things contrary to her ideas of propriety and tried to teach Simran to do the same, but with poor success.

"MemSahib*, you will eat before sleeping."

"Thank you but I am not hungry."

"I will make you something and you eat it," said Dai, her brow furrowed with indignation as she started down the hall for the kitchen. "Pappu!" she called, "tell Cukkie stir up de food."

As the boards shuddered under her weight, the soliloquy she had been muttering in the front hall grew louder and louder, coming clearly to the ears of the family in the dining room.

"I has said time and again, it don't do no good doing nuthin' for them. They is the shiftless, most ungrateful passel of no-counts living'. And MemSahib got no bizness —"

Her voice trailed off as she went down the long open passageway. Dai had her own method of letting her owners know exactly where she stood on all matters. She knew it was beneath the dignity of quality folks to pay the slightest attention to what a servant said when she was just grumbling to herself. She knew that to uphold this dignity, they must ignore what she said. It protected her from reproof, and it left no doubt in anyone's mind as to her exact views on any subject.

Pappu entered the room, bearing a food laden plate. Erleen sat down in the chair which Gurdeep pulled out for her and three voices attacked her.

"Mother, the lace is loose on my new anarkali* and I want to wear it tomorrow 't you please fix it?"

"Mother, Simran's new anarkali is prettier than my Patiala suit* and I look bad in pink. Why can't she wear my pink and let me wear her green? She looks all right in pink."

"Mrs. O'Hara, would you believe it — Hush, you girls, before I take me crop to you! Chawala was in Atlanta this morning and he says — will you be quiet and let me be hearing me own voice?— and he says it's all upset they are there and talking nothing but war, militia drilling, troops forming. And he says the news from Amritsar is that they will be putting up with no more Indian insults."

Erleen's tired mouth smiled into the tumult as she addressed herself first to her husband, as a wife should.

"If the nice people of Amritsar feel that way, I'm sure we will all feel the same way soon," she said, for she had a deeply rooted belief that, most of the gentle blood of the whole sub-continent could be found in that small city, a belief shared largely by people of Amritsar.

"Give me your gown, Simran, I will whip the lace for you.

"Sukhman, I do not like your tone, dear. Your pink Patiala suit is lovely and suitable to your figure, Simran's is to hers. But you may wear my garnet necklace tomorrow night."

Sukhman, behind her mother, wrinkled her nose triumphantly at Simran, who had been planning to beg the necklace for herself. Simran put out her tongue at her. Sukhman was an annoying sister with her whining and selfishness, and had it not been for Erleen's restraining hand, Simran would frequently have boxed her ears.

"Now, Mr. O'Hara, tell me more about what Mr. Chawla said about Amritsar," said Erleen.

Simran knew her mother cared nothing at all about war and politics and thought them masculine matters. But it gave Gurdeep pleasure to air his views, and Erleen was unfailingly thoughtful of her husband's pleasure.

While Gurdeep launched forth on his news, Dai stood beside the table, watching every forkful that traveled from plate to mouth, as though she intended to force the food down Erleen's throat should she see signs of declining. Erleen ate diligently, but Simran could see that she was too tired to know what she was eating. Only Dai's pitiless face forced her to it.

When the dish was empty and Gurdeep only midway in his remarks on the thievishness of Indians, Erleen rose.

It was time for bed; Erleen's plates were taken away by servants. One by one every one trudged to there own room.

As soon as Sirmran's head hit the pillow she thought of Joy. How could he be planning to marry Manpreet when he really loved her, Simran? And when he knew how much she loved him? How could he deliberately break her heart?

Then, suddenly, an idea, a 100W light bulb lit up in her brain.

"Why, Joy hasn't an idea that I'm in love with him!"

She almost gasped aloud in the shock of its unexpectedness. Her mind stood still as if paralyzed for a long, breathless instant, and then raced forward.

"How could he know? I've always acted so touch-me-not around him he probably thinks I don't care a thing about him except as a friend. Yes, that's why he's never spoken! He thinks his love is hopeless. And that's why he's looked so —"

Her mind went swiftly back to those times when she had caught him looking at her in that strange manner, when the hazel eyes that were such perfect curtains for his thoughts had been wide and naked and had in them a look of torment and despair.

"He's been broken hearted because he thinks I'm in love with Banta or Santa or Chanan. And probably he thinks that if he can't have me, he might as well please his family and marry Manpreet. But if he knew I did love him —"

Her volatile spirits shot up from deepest depression to excited happiness. This was the answer to Ashley's reticence, to his strange conduct. He didn't know! Her vanity leaped to the aid of her desire to believe, making belief a certainty. If he knew she loved him, he would hasten to her side. She had only to —

"Oh!" she thought rapturously, digging her fingers into her lowered brow. "What a fool I've been not to think of this till now! I must think of some way to let him know. He wouldn't marry her if he knew I loved him! How could he?"

Even now, it wasn't too late! Too often the County had been scandalized by elopements when one or the other of the participating parties was practically at the altar with a third. And Joy's engagement had not even been announced yet! Yes, there was plenty of time! All she needed was a plan.

And then Simran Kaur Hora planned. First, she would be "prideful," as Gurdeep had commanded. From the moment she arrived at Twelve Oaks, she would be her happiest, most spirited self. No one would suspect that she had ever been downhearted because of Joy. And she would flirt with every man there. That would be cruel to Joy, but it would make him yearn for her all the more. She wouldn't overlook a man of marriageable age, from ginger-whiskered old Fateh, on down to shy, quiet, blushing Charan Hundal, Manpreet's brother. They would swarm around her like bees around a hive, and certainly Joy would be drawn from Manpreet to join the circle of her admirers. Then somehow she would maneuver to get a few minutes alone with him, away from the crowd. She hoped everything would work out that way, because it would be more difficult otherwise. But if Joy didn't make the first move, she would simply have to do it herself.

When they were finally alone, he would have fresh in his mind the picture of the other men thronging about her, he would be newly impressed with the fact that every one of them wanted her, and that look of sadness and despair would be in his eyes. Then she would make him happy again by letting him discover that, popular though she was, she preferred him above any other man in the entire world. And when she admitted it, modestly and sweetly, she would look a thousand things more.

Why, by this time tomorrow night, she might be Mrs. Wahla!

She sat up in bed, hugging her knees, and for a long happy moment she WAS Mrs. Wahla — Joy's bride! Then a slight chill entered her heart. Suppose it didn't work out this way? Resolutely she pushed the thought from her mind.

"I won't think of that now," she said firmly. "If I think of it now, it will upset me. There's no reason why things won't come out the way I want them — if he loves me. And I know he does!"

She raised her chin and her pale, black-fringed eyes sparkled in the moonlight. She had never been taught that desire and attainment were two different matters. She lay in the silvery shadows with courage rising and made the plans that a sixteen-year-old makes when life has been so pleasant that defeat was impossible and a pretty figure and a clear complexion are weapons to overcome fate.

**A/n:** Chapter III done! Its 12:40 am, here now. I will post it…

This was an easier chapter, to adapt.

**Footnote:**

Divans – a cross between a couch and a single bed.

Gajar ka Halwa – it's a desert made from carrots, sugar and milk; through sometimes with out milk. Of course spices and dry fruits may be added.

Sahib – Sir

MemSahib – Madam / female of Sahib, used during and after British raj earlier Sahiba was used.

Ji – honorific; added as a suffix to a name to show respect

Anarkali Suit – A type of dress which can be described as a combination of a long kurta which has a much more defined waistline and bust as compared to a traditional Salwar kameez suit, and bottoms that are usually in the form of a churidar. The kurta is fitted on the bust and normally features large pleats flowing around the legs like an umbrella.

Patiala Salwar Suit – A type of dress consisting of loose lowers as salwars and long knee length top known as Kameez.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The following is a non-profit fan based parody. Gone with the wind is owned by Margaret Mitchell and Mitchell estate. Also this is not meant to offend anyone.

Summary: Indian adaptation of the American Classic Gone with the Wind. Set in Punjab this is story of a headstrong lady Simran (Scarlett) who is infatuated with her neighbor. Meanwhile a roguish man is equally attracted to her. It may seem seem offensive to people of certain communities but isn't meant to do so its all in good fun so laugh heartily and leave a review :)

**A/n:** Thanks Joyce LaKee, for the review. So the day of the Barbeque arrives, only we don't have Barbeques but we have a festival in April, Baisakhi. Baisahi is a harvest festival like Thanks giving. If this could ever be made into a Bollywood movie, this is the part they can fill up with songs and dance. Now, on with the story:

**Previously:**

She raised her chin and her pale, black-fringed eyes sparkled in the moonlight. She had never been taught that desire and attainment were two different matters. She lay in the silvery shadows with courage rising and made the plans that a sixteen-year-old makes when life has been so pleasant that defeat was impossible and a pretty figure and a clear complexion are weapons to overcome fate.

**Chapter IV**

It was half past five in the morning. The cool morning air made the girls: Sukhman and Kiran shiver.

"Hurry-up get ready, I have to go wake up Simaran," said an angry Dai, "you already took too much to wake up."

Kiran thought it was only to be expected, the girls who usually wake up at mid day are now being forced to wake up at day break. But Kiran who was deeply religious didn't resent this, Sukhman on the other hand was bitter. She didn't like waking up early and thought it was unfair, that we had to wake up first. Not only Simran had a room to herself while her and Kiran shared but Simran would get to sleep an extra five minute.

When Dai came in to wake Scarlet she was surprised to find her already awake. A little suspicious she raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"What," said Simran angry at her mistrust, "You expected me to sleep through that ruckus?"

"Sukhman may have been loud but I've seen you sleep through louder."

"Well I didn't today," said Simran as if that was all to it "aren't you glad?"

Dai sure was glad for there was no time to waste, the girls had to be ready in 15mins and by 6 o'clock they had to reach the village Gurudwara* to attend the special prayer ceremony. And after their master left, the servants would perform their own puja* of the Sun.

Simran quickly dressed in a new Salwar Kameez, simpler in design and white in color. This was only for the Gurudwara, later they would change. Her hair was quickly plated by Dai and she wore her peal set, which looked rich but not too heavy to look matronly. With one approving glance at her refection she allowed Dai to cover her head with a phulkari* dupatta*.

By the time she came down her father was the only one ready and waiting for the others, he smiled at her and Simran smiled back. Kiran and their mother came about the same time, and at last came in Sukhman sluggishly.

They all were at the entrance of the Gurudwara and could already hear the devotional _kitans_*. The saw other families and greeted them with waves and smiles but that was all. Nobody went to others to gossip, neither anyone came – it wouldn't be becoming. After taking off their shoes, and washing there hands and feet they entered the Gurudwara.

The prayers lasted for about an hour. All this time Simran kept asking for Joy, for that was all she wanted. She kept going over and over her plan.

By the time they got back it was already 8 o' clock, Sukhman quickly went up to her room and back to bed to catch up on her sleep. Kiran realized there was still some time in getting dressed and decide to read her novel. Simran too new its too early to actually dress up, but sleeping was stupid too – she didn't want to risk over oversleeping today. So she decided to treat herself to a facial.

_Uptan_* – a mixture of chickpea flour, sandalwood powder, curd, turmeric, rose water was used by young ladies as face pack traditionally. It was applied on her face by one of the servants. As she waited for the face pack to dry off she though of Joy, soon they will both run away to Ramamandi and get married. Once they were married everyone will have to accept it and there will be nothing they could do about it.

Her green _Anarkali_ suit was packed for the night's get-together, neatly packed in a large cardboard box. It was ready to be carried to be donned before the dinner party, a dinner part she won't be attending. It made all this effort redundant thought Simran with a smile but it had to be done to keep appearance.

Her face will surely glow and no man will be able to resist her, she thought as she rubbed flour on the dried off face pack to take it off. As she washed the remnants off her face she realized she still hadn't though of what to wear this morning.

What dress would best set off her charms and make her most irresistible to Joy? She turned to her closet and started pulling out dresses one by one.

The rose kurta with _bandhini*_ and _Rajasthani*_ mirror work was becoming, but she had worn it last summer when Manpreet visited, she'd be sure to remember it and might be catty enough to mention it.  
The black silk kurta, with its puffed sleeves and ban neck, set off her white skin superbly, but it did make her look a little elderly. It would never do to appear sedate and elderly before Manpreet's sweet youthfulness.  
The lavender muslin kurta was beautiful with lace around the neck and hem and net sleeves, but it had never suited her type. It would suit Kiran's delicate profile and wishy-washy expression perfectly, but Simran felt that it made her look like a schoolgirl. It would never do to appear school girlish beside Manpreet's poised self.  
The pale green taffeta anarkali, frothing with flounces and each flounce edged in green velvet ribbon, was most becoming, in fact her favorite dress, for it darkened her eyes to emerald. But there was unmistakably a grease spot on the front. Of course, her duppata could cover the spot, but perhaps Manpreet had sharp eyes.  
There remained multicolored printed cotton kurta's which Simran felt were not fit for the occasion, _saris_, _lenga cholis_* and a _farshi pajama*_. This dress was stitched when she and her best friend Krati Chawla bunked school to watch a movie. It was about the Nawab's of Lucknow and was very boring but none the less the two girls were excited seeing a movie for the first time – something they knew their mothers won't approve. They noted excitedly the clothing and the jewelry.

The farshi pajama had featured prominently in movie. A little research explained it was a cross between Kurta Pajama and the British gowns. Empowered with this knowledge the two girls (mostly Krati, who was more into this) decided to get creative. They with their meager pocket money and resources decided to recreate two British gowns in Farshi Pajama style. Simran's "_gown"_ was in light green muslin with small puffed sleeves and deep neckline.

It was simple though, Simran had initially wanted gold zari and mirror work like the movie's dress had but their meager funding and Krati being staunchly against this had changed her mind. All the same it will be unique. While the other girls would be dressed in Patiala's and Anarkali's she will stand out in her farshi pajama. She quickly dressed in it, went in front of the mirror and peered at her refection.

As she stood before the mirror and twisted herself about to get a side view, she thought that there was absolutely nothing about her figure to cause her shame. Her neck was short but rounded and her arms plump and enticing. Her breasts, pushed high by her stays, were very nice breasts.

She was glad she had inherited Erleen's slender white hands and tiny feet, and she wished she had her height, too, but her own height pleased her very well. What a pity legs could not be shown, she thought, pulling up her petticoats and regretfully viewing them, plump and neat under pantalets. She had such nice legs. Even the girls at the St. Joseph's had admitted as much.

But even as she was admiring herself and knew that all the men she'll meet today will do the same she couldn't suppress the rising sense of dread. What will Dai say when she sees this? She won't approve this was for sure, this dress exposed far too much. She quickly draped her _duppata_ to cover her front like shawl – 'this will do at least for now', she though feverously. Though she will sure comment about the pajama, which were skirt like but not inappropriate. They covered her legs, what more do you want.

By the time Dai came it was already 10 am. Dai entered huffing and puffing. In her large black hands was a tray upon which food steaming hot, two large _Kulcha's_ covered with butter, a bowl full of _Chhole_, and a few spoonful of _suji ka halwa_*. Catching sight of Dai's burden, Simran's expression darkened. In the excitement of trying on dresses she had forgotten Dai's ironclad rule that, before going to any party, the girls must be crammed so full of food at home they would be unable to eat any refreshments at the party.

"It's no use. I won't eat it. You can just take it back to the kitchen."

Dai set the tray on the table and squared herself, hands on hips.

"You will every bite, I don't want you to eat food at the Wahla's and fall sick."

"I will not fall sick and I shan't eat."

Dai tone became coaxing.

"Now, Simran, you be good and come eat just a little Kiran and Sukhman have eaten."

"They would," said Simran. "They haven't any more spirit than a rabbit. But I won't! I'm through with trays. I'm not forgetting the time I ate a whole tray and went to the Chawla's and they had ice cream they'd brought all the way from Ludhiana, and I couldn't eat but a spoonful. I'm going to have a good time today and eat as much as I please."

Dai sighed, she was scared that the food Wahla's provided was not of good quality especially with the amount of guests they'll be serving and then Simran would fall sick with some stomach infection. Simran was so stubborn she won't eat unless she thought something fast. To divert her attention she looked at what she was wearing and was shocked.

"You can't wear that. You can't show your chest and that dress got no neck and sleeves. And you will get tanned. I'll go tell your mother."

"If you say one word to her before I'm dressed I won't eat a bite," said Simran coolly. "Mother won't have time to send me back to change once I'm dressed."

Dai sighed again, finding herself outsmarted. Between the two evils, it was better to have Simran wear a weird dress than to have her gobble like a hog and then get dysentery.

"But you must cover yourself with a dupatta," said Dai sternly.

"Like this," Simran once again draped her duppata like a shawl.

"Its fine," said Dai then added, "There is no one as pretty as my Simran baba. Now quickly eat up."

Simran obediently sat down before the tray. Dai plucked a large towel from the washstand and carefully tied it around Simran's neck, spreading the white folds over her lap. Simran began on _kulche_, dipped it in the _chhole _and ate.

As the car drove toward the Wahla's home, Simran had a feeling of guilty pleasure that neither her mother nor Dai was with them. There would be no one who, by delicately lifted brows or pout, could interfere with her plan of action. Of course, Sukhman would be certain to tell tales tomorrow, but if all went as Simran hoped; the excitement of the family over her engagement to Joy or her elopement would more than overbalance their displeasure. Yes, she was very glad Erleen had been forced to stay at home.

Gurdeep, primed with Rum, had given Jogi Waghela his dismissal that morning and Erleen had remained at home to go over the accounts before he took his departure. Simran had kissed her mother good-by in the little office. Jogi Waghela stood beside her, his wheatish tight-skinned face hardly concealing the fury of hate that possessed him at being so unceremoniously turned out of the best overseer's job in the County.

He had told Gurdeep over and over that Amita Sattee's baby might have been fathered by any one of a dozen men as easily as himself — an idea in which Gurdeep concurred — but that had not altered his case so far as Erleen was concerned. Jogi hated all Southerners. He hated their cool courtesy to him and their contempt for his social status, so inadequately covered by their courtesy. He hated Erleen Hora above anyone else, for she was the epitome of all that he hated in Southerners.

Dai, as head woman of the plantation, had remained to help Erleen, and it was DilAram who sat beside driver's seat, the girls' dresses in a long box in the car's boot. Gurdeep rode beside the car on his horse, warm with brandy and pleased with himself for having gotten through with the unpleasant business of Waghela so speedily. He had shoved the responsibility onto Erleen, and her disappointment at missing the barbecue and the gathering of her friends did not enter his mind; for it was a fine spring day and his fields were beautiful and the birds were singing and he felt too young and frolicsome to think of anyone else.

He was riding his horse – horse riding was his favorite hobby some that Simran had inherited from him. The car driver was instructed to match his speed which wasn't much for the horse was trotting.

Simran, looking at him with the affectionate contempt that mothers feel for small swaggering sons, knew that he would be very drunk by sundown. Coming home in the dark, he would try, as usual, to jump every fence and, she hoped, by the mercy of fate and the good sense of his horse, would escape breaking his neck. He would disdain the bridge and swim his horse through the river and come home roaring, to be put to bed on the sofa in the office by Pappu who always waited up with a lamp in the front hall on such occasions.

He would ruin his new pathan suit, which would cause him to swear horribly in the morning and tell Erleen at great length how his horse fell off the bridge in the darkness — a obvious lie which would fool no one but which would be accepted by all and make him feel very clever.

Papa is a sweet, selfish, irresponsible dear, Simran thought, with a surge of affection for him. She felt so excited and happy this morning that she included the whole world, in her affection. She was pretty and she knew it; she would have Joy for her own before the day was over.

"I'll remember how beautiful this day is till I die," thought Simran. "Perhaps it will be my wedding day!"

It was impossible to feel anything but palpitating joy in this warm sun, in this spring, with the dome of Barahkhhamba just beginning to show on the hill across the river.

"I'll live there all my life and I'll see fifty springs like this and maybe more, and I'll tell my children and my grandchildren how beautiful this spring was, lovelier than any they'll ever see."

"I don't know why you're so happy this morning," said Sukhman crossly, for the thought still rankled in her mind that she would look far better in Simarn's green Anarkali than its rightful owner would. And why was Simran always so selfish about lending her clothes? And why did Mother always back her up, declaring green was not Sukhman's color? "You know as well as I do that Joy's engagement is going to be announced tonight. Papaji said so this morning. And I know you've been sweet on him for months."

"That's all you know," said Simran, putting out her tongue and refusing to lose her good humor. How surprised Sukhman would be by this time tomorrow morning!

"Sukh, you know that's not so," protested Kiran, shocked. "It's Banta that Simran cares about."

Simran turned smiling blue-green eyes upon her younger sister, wondering how anyone could be so sweet. The whole family knew that Kiran's thirteen-year-old heart was set upon Banta, Balvinder Toor, who never gave her a thought except as Simran's baby sister. When Erleen was not present, the Hora's teased her to tears about him.

"Darling, I don't care a thing about Banta," declared Simran, happy enough to be generous. "And he doesn't care a thing about me. Why, he's waiting for you to grow up!"

Kiran's round little face became pink, as pleasure struggled with incredulity.

"Oh, Simran, really?"

"Simran, you know Mother said Kiran was too young to think about boys yet, and there you go putting ideas in her head."

"Well, go and tattle and see if I care," replied Simran. "You want to hold Sissy back, because you know she's going to be prettier than you in a year or so."

"Hush! Is it wheels I'm hearing?" Gurdeep Hora's voice joined the girl's inside the car, "That'll be the Toors or the Pahwas."

As they neared the intersecting road he sound of hooves and carriage wheels became plainer and clamorous feminine voices raised in pleasant dispute sounded from behind the screen of trees. Gurdeep, riding ahead, pulled up his horse and signed to driver to stop the car where the two roads met.

"The Toor ladies," he announced to his daughters.

Toor carriage, overflowing with girls in bright dresses, came into view, with Mrs. Toor on the box. With her four daughters, their Dai and their dresses in long cardboard boxes crowding the carriage, there was no room for the coachman. And, besides, Bani Toor never willingly permitted anyone, to hold reins when her arms were in working condition.

She loved horses and talked horses constantly. She understood them and handled them better than any man in the County. Colts overflowed the paddock onto the front lawn, even as her eight children overflowed the house.

She was wearing jodhpores, and will probably change once they reached.

She waved her whip when she saw Gurdeep and drew her dancing pair of red horses to a halt, and the four girls in the back of the carriage leaned out and gave such loud cries of greeting. To a casual observer it would seem that years had passed since the Toors had seen the Horas instead of only two days. But they were a sociable family and liked their neighbors, especially the Hora girls. That is, they liked Sukhman and Kiran. No girl in the pind, with the possible exception of the empty-headed Krati Chawla, really liked Simran.

"That's a fine bunch of girls," said Gurdeep, reining his horse alongside the carriage. "But it's far they'll go to beat their mother."

Mrs. Toor rolled her brown eyes and sucked in her lower lip in caricatured appreciation, and the girls cried, "Ma, stop making eyes or we'll tell Papa!" "I vow, Mr. Hora, she never gives us a chance when there's a handsome man like you around!"

Simran laughed with the rest but, as always, the freedom with which the Toors treated their mother came as a shock. They acted as if she were one of themselves and not a day over sixteen. To Simran, the very idea of saying such things to her own mother was almost blasphemous. And yet — and yet — there was something very pleasant about the Toor girls' relations with their mother, and they adored her for all that they criticized and scolded and teased her. Not, Simran loyally hastened to tell herself, that she would prefer a mother like Mrs. Toor, but still it would be **fun** to romp with a mother.

"Where's Erleen this morning?" asked Mrs. Toor.

"She's after discharging our overseer and stayed home to go over the accounts with him. Where are Jamail and the lads?"

"Oh, they took the SUV to the Wahla's hours ago — to sample the punch and see if it was strong enough, I dare say, as if they wouldn't have from now till tomorrow morning to do it! I'm going to ask Jagjit Wahla to keep them overnight, even if he has to bed them down in the stable. Five men in their cups are just too much for me. Up to three, I do very well but —"

Gurdeep hastily interrupted to change the subject. He could feel his own daughters snickering behind his back as they remembered in what condition he had come home from the _diwali_ gathering last autumn.

"And why aren't you riding today? Sure, you don't look yourself at all without N_eeli_.

"Well, Nellie foaled early this morning."

"Did she now!" cried Gurdeep with real interest, his passion for horses shining in his eyes, and Simran again felt the sense of shock in comparing her mother with Mrs. Toor. To Erleen, mares never foaled nor cows calved. In fact, hens almost didn't lay eggs. Erleen ignored these matters completely. But Mrs. Toor had no such reserve.

A little filly, was it?"

"No, a fine little stallion with legs two yards long. You must ride over and see him, Mr. Hora. He's a real Toor horse. He's as brown as Harjyot's curls."

"And looks a lot like Prabhjyot, too," said Kiran, and then disappeared shrieking amid, as Prahjyot, who did have a long face, began pinching her.

"The girls are so excited," said Mrs. Toor. "They've been kicking up their heels ever since we heard the news this morning about Joy and that little cousin of his from Jaladhar. What's her name? Manpreet? Bless the child, she's a sweet little thing, but I can never remember either her name or her face. Though I can't see why all the excitement . Everybody's known for years that Joy would marry her, that is, if he didn't marry one of his Burr cousins from Bhatinda. Just like Sweetie Wahla is going to marry Manpreet's brother. Now, tell me, Mr. Hora, is it illegal for the Wahla's to marry outside of their family? Because if —"

Simran did not hear the rest of the laughing words. For one short instant, it was as though the sun had ducked behind a cool cloud, leaving the world in shadow, taking the color out of things. It was one thing to know that Joy was engaged but it was another to hear people talk about it so casually. Then her courage flowed strongly back and the sun came out again and the landscape glowed anew. She knew Joy loved her. That was certain. And she smiled as she thought how surprised Mrs. Toor would be when no engagement was announced that night — how surprised if there were an elopement. And she'd tell neighbors how Simran was sitting there and listening to her talk about Manpreet when all the time she and Joy — She dimpled at her own thoughts and Prabhjyot, who had been watching sharply the effect of her mother's words, sank back with a small puzzled frown.

"I don't care what you say, Mr. Hora," Mrs. Toor was saying emphatically. "It's all wrong, this marrying of cousins. It's bad enough for Joy to be marrying the Hundal child, but for Sweetie to be marrying that pale-looking Chanan —"

"Sweetie will never catch anybody else if she doesn't marry him," said Roop, cruel and secure in her own popularity. "And he's never acted very sweet on her; for all that they're engaged. Simran, you remember how he ran after you last Diwali —"

"Don't be a cat," said her mother. "Cousins shouldn't marry, even second cousins. It weakens the strain. It isn't like horses. You can breed a mare to a brother or a sire to a daughter and get good results if you know your blood strains, but in people it just doesn't work. You get good lines, perhaps, but no stamina. You —"

"Now, I'm taking issue with you on that! Can you name me better people than the Wahlas?"

"Yes but all these inter-marriages are beginning to show. Oh, not Joy so much, for he's a good-looking devil, though even he — But look at those two washed-out-looking girls, poor things! Nice girls, of course, but washed out. And look at little Manpreet. Thin as a rail and delicate enough for the wind to blow away and no spirit at all. You see what I mean? That family needs new blood, fine vigorous blood like my girls or your Simran. Now, don't misunderstand me. The Wahlas are fine folks in their way, and you know I'm fond of them all, but be frank! They are over bred and inbred too, aren't they? They'll do fine on a dry track, a fast track, but mark my words; I don't believe the Wilkes can run on a mud track. I believe the stamina has been bred out of them, and when the emergency arises I don't believe they can run against odds. And just look at the bones on them. Too slender. They need dams and sires with strength —"

"Ah-ah-hum," said Gurdeep, suddenly and guiltily aware that the conversation, a most interesting and entirely proper one to him, would seem quite otherwise to Erleen. In fact, he knew she would never recover should she learn that her daughters had been exposed to so frank a conversation. But Mrs. Toor was, as usual, deaf to all other ideas when pursuing her favorite topic, breeding, whether it is about horses or humans.

"I know what I'm talking about because I had some cousins who married each other and I give you my word their children all turned out as popeyed as bullfrogs, poor things. And when my family wanted me to marry a second cousin, I bucked like a colt. I said, 'No, Ma. Not for me. My children will all have spavins and heaves.' Well, Ma fainted when I said that about spavins, but I stood firm and Grandma backed me up. She knew a lot about horse breeding too, you see, and said I was right. And she helped me run away with Mr. Toor. And look at my children! Big and healthy and not a sickly one or a runt among them, though Bodh is only five feet ten. Now, the Wahlas —"

"Not meaning to change the subject," broke in Gurdeep hurriedly, for he had noticed Kiran's bewildered look and the avid curiosity on Sukhman's face and feared lest they might ask Erleen embarrassing questions which would reveal how inadequate a chaperon he was. Puss, he was glad to notice, appeared to be thinking of other matters as a lady should.

Prabhjyot rescued him from his predicament.

"Good Heavens, Mama, do let's get on!" she cried impatiently. "This sun is broiling me and I can just hear freckles popping out on my neck."

As Mrs. Toor left, Gurdeep signaled the driver to move on. As the car moved on he followed it on horse back.

**A/n:** Chapter IV done with 4484 words! Its 5'o clock in the morning here now so I hope you guys excuse some editing errors. I'm going out of station for a marriage, so I quickly updated this. I'll shift it to Gone with the wind, temporarily … not sure if it belongs there but will give it a try; apparently no one has noticed it …  
Thoes who notice … REVIEW!

Also I just found out _David_ O. _Selznick _producer of Gone with the Wind met Dev Anand of Bollywood and wanted to cast him as a hero in a movie set in Kashmir. He died before that could happen.

**Footnote:**

Gurudwara- the sikh religious center/structure.

Puja- the hindu ritualistic worship is puja

Phulkari- Punjabi traditional embroidery style

Duppata - (alternative names include orni/odhni, chunri, chunni, orna, and pacheri) is a long, multi-purpose scarf that is essential to many South Asian women's suits and matches the woman's garments

Kirtan – Sikh or even hindu devotional songs or hymns

Bandhini – a tie and dye like work.

Rajasthani – of the state of Rajasthan, India's larges state in terms of area.

Sari- an Indian dress

Lehnga Choli – another Indian dress, Lehnga or ghaghra is like a long skirt and choli is a top.

Suji ka halva – a sweet dish prepared using wheat semolina


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The following is a non-profit fan based parody. Gone with the wind is owned by Margaret Mitchell and Mitchell estate. Also this is not meant to offend anyone.

Summary: Indian adaptation of the American Classic Gone with the Wind. Set in Punjab this is story of a headstrong lady Simran (Scarlett) who is infatuated with her neighbor. Meanwhile a roguish man is equally attracted to her. Leave a review :)

**A/n:** I was happy to see so many new reviews. I'd like to thank **Joyce LaKee, RaiseHighTheRoofBeam, Cornorama, Deep Forest Green** and the three Guests for their splendid reviews.

**Deep Forest Green: **I'll be discussing your idea of Gone with the Wind set in the Raj after I finish this chapter.

Replies to the Guest Reviewers,  
To Guest 1 (The first guest reviewer): I plan to keep the fiction in the GWTW section instead of the crossover.

To Guest2 : I understand your concerns, I didn't mean to plagiarise, it's just that I really like some lines and want to include them and then there are these lines that I have to include like the opening – for any modification would spoil it so. Anyway this Chapter will have less of these lifts. I'll try to consciously keep it to a minimum.

To Guest3: I don't think Cornorama is accusing anyone (I may be wrong), I think when she said, "_So often, authors think that we have found things from our stories in other fanfic's which can naturally happen because we are all writing from the same source material_" she just thinks this is very different from our usual – what if Scarlett became Rhett's mistress or what happened after Rhett left Scarlett or What if Bonney had not died and so on.

As for Plagiarism, please read my reply to Guest 2. I have consciously tried not incorporating too many lines from the book in this chapter – do tell me how it's turned up. Earlier I treated this fic as a parody rather than an adaptation hence the many lifts …

**Previously:**

"Not meaning to change the subject," broke in Gurdeep hurriedly, for he had noticed Kiran's bewildered look and the avid curiosity on Sukhman's face and feared lest they might ask Erleen embarrassing questions which would reveal how inadequate a chaperon he was. Simran, he was glad to notice, appeared to be thinking of other matters as a lady should.

Prabhjyot rescued him from his predicament.

"Good Heavens, Mama, do let's get on!" she cried impatiently. "This sun is broiling me and I can just hear freckles popping out on my neck."

As Mrs. Toor left, Gurdeep signaled the driver to move on. As the car moved on he followed it on horseback.

**Chapter V**

A large white car topped with a blue light travelled on a narrow road. It siren blared, announcing to all its arrival. The lush green fields on either side of the road were calm and quiet; some cows lazily grazing at a distance could be seen. There were three other men in the car beside the driver. Two on the front seat one at the back.

The car was moving speedily when it came to a sudden halt. A large flock of sheep and goat were crossing the road. There were two men with this flock, wagging their hands and clucking their tongues to make the sheep move faster. The two men in the front quickly jumped out to attend to the matter. They helped the other two men – the shepherds, but the flock was large and it was taking time. All the while the siren kept on blazing disturbing the surrounding calm.

Five minutes passed thus, and the siren was switched off. The back seat window was opened and a head peered out of it.

"What is taking so much time; clear this fast," said an irritated voice issuing from the head.

The two men helping the shepherds were resentful but they daren't show it on their faces. They knew why the minister was pissed. He was denied his usual convoy of security – two jeeps to lead and two jeeps to follow, instead was given just two gunmen as all the security was busy with the Chief Minister and the Prime Minister back at the capital.

Instead, the two men started talking to the shepherds in loud carrying whispers.

"Do you know who he was?"

When the shepherds shook their heads the men replied, "of course you don't. How would you? You are some illiterate village folks –unaware and ignorant. That man is a very important minister. You see this white Ambassador with blue light, only very important people can ride this car."

They glanced towards the car and saw the minister smiling. They sighed with relief – their performance was a success. Now they won't be blamed for the delay. They might get promoted, they thought hopefully.

In what seemed like hours but was actually a few minutes over ten the road was cleared, the two men hopped on and the car quickly went away with the loud siren back on.

Three men - the two shepherds and another, watched them go a grim smile on each of their faces.

As the Hora's car entered the Wahla's property, they all could see their house. Constructed by some Wahla ancestor during the British Raj, the lime plastered house was a good example of the architecture prevalent then – Indo-Saracenic: The large dome crowning the house, the chajjas, the ornamental jalis, the decorative cusped arches, a heavy plinth, tall Greek columns and a porch. The house – almost a mini palace, was now suitably modernised with provisions made electric devices such as bulb holders but the older ornamental candle holders remained and were still in use, especially during power cuts.

Modern plumbing was still not used, although a small kitchenette was added to the house, at Indira's insistence but on most occasions, especially festive once like these, the main kitchen was used.

Simran could already smell in her mind all the delicacies to be served today: papri chat*, Kulchhe Chhole*, Rajma Chawal*, chicken tikka*, pinni*, halwa*. Her mouth watered just thinking about them. She was full to the brim – her Dai had fed her so, afraid that with all the guests coming and the amount of food to be prepared the servants would go lax in cleanliness but Simran hoped she'd be able to sample at least a few dishes.

As they moved through the parking to the porch, scarlet saw a bunch of carriages, several cars and few bikes. She caught a glimpse of the Toor's Jeep – in which the four Toor boys had arrived with their father, the Pahwa's carriage – for the Pahwa's didn't own a car, their house not connected by a metaled road, the Maan's Standard and the Hamilton's Premier Padmini identical to her own only theirs was newer and shinier.

The front yard, Simran noticed, looked like some kind of fair. There were stalls of various eateries all around them, men and women roamed around in colourful dresses. In one of the large open terraces, Simran saw, the matriarchs of the various families; the older women were seated and chatting. She also had a glimpse of the Toor twins: Santa and Banta, who were with their older brothers, all of them were obviously a little tipsy. They were all laughing loudly – at something that won't seem funny to anyone sober. For a split second Simran wondered what it would be like to get drunk but quickly removed the thought by looking out of the window.

Mr Chawala was with his Bengali wife, who somehow never could fit in with the local ladies. Mrs Chawala was not Mr Chawala's first wife; she was initially nurse to the first Mrs Chawala, who had a frail health. After her death the cunning Bengali nurse quickly captured the recently widowed rich man's affection and became his new wife. She wasn't a bad woman, always nice to the kids who were not her own, yet not popular with the ladies.

Siman having seen many a familiar face in the crowd was convinced that the whole _pind_ was here and a few families from Jalandhar and as far as Bhatinda. The giggling girls, laughing boys dressed in colourful finery and the smell of all the delicious food wafting about, Simarn was sure, could bring a dead body to life. Soon the dhols would start playing making the gathering livelier.

The drive to the porch was slow, with the other guest in cars and horses slowing them down. When they finally arrived Jagjit Wahlah stood to welcome them, silver-haired, straight, and glowing with quiet charm and warmth. Beside him was his second daughter Sweetie Wahla, so called _because she indiscriminately addressed everyone from her father to the servants by that endearment, fidgeted and giggled as she called greetings to the arriving guests._

_Sweetie __nervously obvious desire to be attractive to every man in sight contrasted sharply with her father's poise, and Simran had the thought that perhaps there was something in what Mrs. Toor said, after all. Certainly the Wahla men got the family looks; _the thick black eye lashes of the men were scant and sparse in the faces of Sweetie and her sister Indira. The men: both Joy and his father were tall, thin and elegant whereas Sweetie was skinny fat, she used to be thin with no breasts or hip – no meat on her bones. To gain the curvy buxom look she increased her diet considerably and the resultant was a deposit of fat got stored in her belly making her look worse than ever. And Indira was – there is no word to describe her – plain.

Indira was nowhere to be seen, but Simran knew she probably was in the kitchen giving final instructions to the servants. Poor Indira, thought Scarlett, she's had so much trouble keeping house since her mother died that she's never had the chance to catch any man except Santa Toor. But she was too plain to hold his attention and Santa came to me, the prettier girl.

Mr Wahla greeted Simran. As she got down from the car, she saw Sukhman grinning like an idiot and realised that she must have seen Fatah Beer Kohli. Fatah Beer Kohli in Simran's eyes was an oddity – a forty year old man who was not married and fussed more than their mother Erleen. She remembered how last Lohri he had fussed about Sukhman because she sneezed a few times. True the man was rich and owned a lot of land and had a kind heart but these things didn't matter to Simran. She thought him to be a fool.

She never understood why Sukhman liked him. As if she would ever need someone like Fatah Beer Kohli, though Simran contemptuously, as she stepped out and thank Mr Wahla.

Fatah Beer Kohli was hurrying to meet Sukhman, and Sukhman was acting in a way that made Simran want to slap her. However, remembering her plan, Simran smothered her contempt and cast such a flashing smile of greeting at him that he stopped short, his arm out held to Sukhman and gawked at Simran in blissful disbelief. Never before had Simran even graced him with a look.

Simran's eyes scanned the crowd for Joy, while she chatted a bit with her father but he wasn't there. There were greetings from a bunch of voices and Santa and Banta Toor moved toward her. The Mann girls rushed up to exclaim over her dress:

"Are you wearing a gown," said Dalmita Kaur Maan surprise evident on her face for this was a festival and the dress code was strictly ethnic, not that the girls were allowed to wear gowns at all.

"No, it's a farshi pyjama," said Simran, as she spread her legs just a little bit to show the divide and then twirled around to show the skirts.

"Nice but quit unlike your usual Anarkalis and embroidered suits," said Sahiba Maan, Dalmita's older sister – fiancée of Jaipal Singh Pahwah, "it's plain – no zari or zardozi?"

Simran had wanted Zari and Zardozi but it wouldn't do to tell them that. Luckily Krati Chawla came to her defence.

"It's is supposed to be plain," said Krati the usual ditsy blonde transforming into an expert when it comes to fashion, "Sure the _Begams_* of that time wanted it embellished but now things have changed. Why Simran's gown is inspired by the gown Vivian Leigh wore in the barbeque seen in the movie Gone with the Wind!"

A few girls squealed, they had read this book and eventually had watched the movie too. Simran meanwhile didn't care of any foreign book or English movie, was looking for Joy. She kept glancing around. Even when Krati had told her about this trivia earlier Simran's reaction was, "meh –" And now she was thinking of Joy and Manpreet for they were nowhere to be seen. She tried not to be obvious as she looked about and peered around and after a while concluded that they were still inside.

Simran continued to talk and flirt happily for a while as if nothing was amiss. Santa and Banta were trying to dislodge her from the crowd and maneuverer her to their side.

"I must go upstairs and do my hair," she told the pair of them, "You better wait for me or I'll be mad."

Simran somehow extracted herself from the chattering crowed. Indira had arrived from the kitchens her hair untidy and beads of perspiration on her forehead looking plain as ever. She greeted Simran politely and was a little aloof as always. Poor Indira! She was nearly twenty five and had no suitor at all, never had one except Santa. Simran wondered if Indira resented her for stealing her man but if she did she did a very good job not showing it. Lot of people said she still loved him but Indira never seemed like she cared. Simran spoke pleasantly to her then left with Krati Chawla.

Krati was her best friend since school times. No other girl had ever liked Simran. As a kid all Simran's friends were young boys of her age and later on with Simran being so pretty and adept in stealing boyfriends, no girl wanted to befriend her. Krati was tall, slim yet curvy in all the right places and blonde – in both senses of the word. Her hair were a dark muddy blonde, it were a lot lighter when she was young and she was teased and envied much for that. All in all Krati was a beautiful girl. She was much admired despite being a little silly.

Santa and Banta were not happy with Simran flirting with other boys. It was showing on their flushed faces. Simran hoped they wouldn't create trouble. As she walked up the steps she felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle – as if someone was watching her.

_Her eyes fell on a stranger, standing alone, staring at her in a cool impertinent way that brought her up sharply with a mingled feeling of feminine pleasure that she had attracted a man and an embarrassed sensation that her dress was too low in the_ bosom_. _She wanted to wear her dupatta as dai had instructed and not like a sash as she was now._ He looked quite old, at least thirty. He was a tall man and powerfully built._

_He was a tall man and powerfully built. Simran thought she had never seen a man with such wide shoulders, so heavy with muscles, almost too heavy. When her eye caught his, he smiled, showing animal-white teeth below a close-clipped black moustache. He was dark of face, and his eyes were as bold and black as any dacoit appraising goods to be scuttled or a maiden to be ravished. There was a cool recklessness in his face and a_ _cynical humour in his mouth as he smiled at her, and Simran caught her breath. She felt that she should be insulted by such a look and was annoyed with herself because she did not feel insulted. She did not know who he could be, but there was undeniably a look of good blood in his dark face. It showed in the thin hawk nose over the full red lips, the high forehead and the wide-set eyes._

Just then Chanan Hundal appeared. He called her, blushing for he was girl shy. He was a handsome man with soft brown curly hair, eyes deep brown like pools of chocolate and gentle as that of a Labrador. He was wearing a fashionable Pathan suit and an expression of deep devotion and admiration. Simran had never cared for him but today she wanted every man on her side so Chanan Hundal was greeted with warmth and a beaming smile of pleasured. Like Fatah Beer before him Chanan was also pleasantly surprised.

"Chanan Hundal, you look so handsome, as handsome as you always do. I'll bet you came all the way down here from Jalandhar just to break my poor heart!"

Chanan almost stuttered with excitement, holding her warm little hands in his and looking into the dancing blue-green eyes. This was the way girls talked to other boys but never to him. He never knew why but girls always treated him like a younger brother and were very kind, but never bothered to flirt with him. On the few occasions they did flirt with him but he could never think of anything to say and he suffered agonies of embarrassment at his dumbness. Then he lay awake at night thinking of what he could have said; but he rarely got a second chance, for the girls left him alone after a trial or two.

There were only three women he could talk freely, his mother like Aunt, his sister Manpreet and Sweetie. He didn't quite like Sweetie although they were almost good as engaged, and he had known her all his life since they were cousins. He was sure Sweetie was not his kind of girl. To him, though he'd never admit it aloud, Sweetie seemed nymphomaniac, for all the things she said – her advances – he was sure, she didn't care for him and would to that to any guy given a chance.

Simran on the other hand was pretty, vivacious and now was paying him attention.

_He tried to think of something to say and couldn't, and silently he blessed her because she kept up a steady chatter which relieved him of any necessity for conversation. It was too good to be true._

"_Now, you wait right here till I come back, for I want to spend the day with you. And don't you go off philandering with those other girls, because I'm mighty jealous," came the incredible words from red lips with a dimple on each side; and briskly black lashes swept demurely over green-blue eyes_.

"_I won't," he finally managed to breathe, never dreaming that she was thinking he looked like a lamb waiting for the butcher._

She went ahead and then she turned back to wave at him only to see _that man _again he was only a few feet away, ginning like a Cheshire cat. Apparently he had overheard the entire conversation. Again his eyes went over her, scanning her – undressing her.

She nudged Krati and whispered, "Who is that odious man, the one standing all alone?"

"That is Rehat Bhuttar," whispered Krati dramatically, and then paused for the effect. Then added in an irritated voice for she didn't get the desired effect, "Surely **you** know about **him**."

When Simran still remained blank Krati said, "My God don't you know! I'm not sure what he is doing here. He is the guest of Mr Kohli, doing some business with him so I guess Mr Wahla couldn't just throw him out. But nobody talks to him. He was thrown out of the society."

They entered an empty sitting room, to resume their conversation.

"Thrown out? What do you mean – did he marry in the wrong caste?"

"No much worse," said Krati eager to gossip, "He didn't marry at all."

"What! That doesn't make any sense. Fatah Beer is much older and unmarried –"

"Oh let me complete," Krati irritated on being interrupted, "As I was saying. He is from Amritsar and his family is one of the best families there – old, rich and renowned. My cousin told me about him last summer. She isn't related to him or anything but she knows – everyone knows – He was expelled from NDA* for a reason so bad that my cousin doesn't even know."

"Oh I see," said Simran, wondering what it could be.

"And then there was the girl who he didn't marry. I was telling you about her. He took her out in the afternoon – and she went, so she was no better. Then they say that the car broke down and they had to stay there all night. No one obviously believed them. Her reputation was obviously ruined. And then guess what?"

"What?"

"He didn't marry her. Of course they are equally responsible. No girl should go out with a guy late in the afternoon. The Bhutter family quickly disowned him. The girl's brother tried to kill him to save her honor but Mr Bhutter somehow managed to kill him instead."

"_Did she have a baby?" whispered Simran in Krati's ear. Krati shook her head violently. _

"_But she was ruined just the same," she hissed back, "nobody married her."_

_I wish I had gotten Joy to compromise me, thought Simran suddenly. He'd be too much of a gentleman not to marry me. But somehow, unbidden, she had a feeling of respect for this unknown Rehat Bhutter for refusing to marry a girl who was a fool._

Simran sat in an octagonal domed gazebo, on a pedestal, right in the middle. She had hardly touched plate in her hands and seven men about her: Chanan Hundal was firmly lodged to her right and could not be removed with the Toor twins combined efforts. The attention Simran gave her made him surprisingly bold. Charan Chawala sat on her left and was fighting Santa Toor over that place. Fatah Beer had left Sukhman alone and was now acting as if he was Simran's personal waiter and server – running to and fro to fetch her food.

The food was arranged on a bunch of benches laid side by side: Plates and cutlery on one side and water on the other. People helped themselves, though some elderly ladies were helped by servants.

Young girls were sitting on light weight folding chairs especially brought for this purpose. But not Simran, she wanted to be surrounded by boys –the chair just wouldn't have done. So she decided to sit apart.

Married woman were seated together underneath a particularly large neem tree. The newly married once dressed in bright colours, decked in jewels while the older much sober. There was the Grand matriarch from the Pahwa family who everyone called _Bee-ji_*. She was dressed in a dull reddish brown whereas Alamara Maan who was newly married was dressed in shocking pink clothes with bangles covering almost all of her forearms. These showed that her matrimonial alliance had not yet completed one year. Only after one year was she allowed lessening the number of bangles.

Since this was her first baisakhi after marriage she was the centre of attention for all the married women. To add to that she was pregnant. The ladies had a good time discussing her pregnancy giving her tips, the herbal remedies that their mothers and grandmothers had taught them, and a list of do's and don'ts.

"And don't eat nutmeg, papaya –"

Simran overhears a bit of one of the matriarch's lecture and thinks how boring it was to be married. There would be no dating, no boyfriends, and no sneaking kisses with each other just the same old boring routine. Casting scornful looks at them, Simran thought that they all looked like a stupid fat buffalos chewing cud. It did not occur to her that if she married Joy she would become one of them. Like most girls of her age, she thought of weddings and marriages to be two separate things. In her mind weddings were not part of the marriage or gateway to it but a festival celebrating her. Besides, she was too unhappy now to think.

She was knee deep in men yet she had never been more miserable in her life. In some way that she could not understand, her plans of last night had failed utterly so far as Joy was concerned. She had attracted other men by the dozens, but not the one she wanted, and all the fears of yesterday afternoon were eating her up once again, making her heart beat erratic, and the palms of her hands clammy.

Joy had made no attempt to join the ranks of men surrounding her; in fact she had not even spoken to him since their first greeting let alone a one to one conversation. He had come forward to welcome her when she came into the back garden, but Manpreet was with him, the top of whose head barely reached his shoulder.

Manpreet was a tiny, frailly built girl, who gave the appearance of a twelve year old_—an illusion that was heightened by the shy, almost frightened look in her too large brown eyes. She had a cloud of curly dark hair which was so sternly repressed in a bun that no vagrant tendrils escaped, and this dark mass, with its long widow's peak, accentuated the heart shape of her face. Too wide across the cheek bones, too pointed at the chin, it was a sweet, timid face but a plain face, and she had no feminine tricks of allure to make observers forget its plainness._ She looked—and was—as simple as earth, as transparent as glass and just as frail. _But for all her plainness of feature and smallness of stature, there was a sedate dignity about her movements that was oddly touching and far older than her seventeen years._

Her dress was a simple _salwar kurta*_ with a lacy front to hide the lack of breasts. She didn't wear much jewellery, just a simple gold chain with a pendent and two heavy ear earbobs with their long gold fringe. _She had smiled with timid liking when she welcomed Simran_ and complemented her dress. Since then Joy was with Manpreet, first accompanying her to the various stalls and now sitting side by side – far away from the others, on folding chairs not far from the gazebo Simran was occupying.

The two of them were talking quietly and smiling and Simran badly wanted to know what they were talking about. Joy's smile was something that Siman thought was her own and she didn't want him sharing that with anyone else. She, Simran, had everything a girl wanted – she was surrounded and appreciated by men; and the other girls who were pea green with envy, at any other times she would be immensely pleased by this by this time with the crashing of her plans she didn't care for the glares she received from other girls or admiration she received from her knights.

Sweetie Wahla was on the verge of tears, her fiancé although unofficial Chanan had ignored her completely. Sukhman seeing Fatah Beer wait on her sister instead of her was livid – her face turning purplish from all the suppressed anger. Kiran too was upset for Banta had eyes for only her sister. The Maan girls were pretty anger themselves when they realised that the Pahwa boys Tej and Ajay were lounging near Simran's Gazebo in hopes of getting a place there. But they concealed it instead they made eye-contact with Harjyot, with a knowing look in their eyes. When she caught her eyes they glanced at Simran.

They three ladies got up and quickly took boys away from Simran and her Gazebo. Simran giggled silently when she saw them dragging their boyfriends away and then glanced towards Joy to see if he noticed this. But what she saw caused her heart to clench in pain. Joy was playing with the end of Manpreet's duppata. She quickly looked away and saw Rahat Bhuttar who was not mixing with the crowd – instead was talking to Jagjit Wahla. He had been watching her and when their eyes met he laughed at her. It was as if he understood her misery, despite the happy act she was putting on for the benefit of Joy and others and this was providing him mordant amusement. She wanted to slice the smile off his face.

"If only I could survive this lunch, then I will seek Joy out when all the girls are napping. He must know by now how popular I am," she thought to herself, "Of course he has to sit with Manpreet otherwise she'd be all alone – in this new place where she has no close friends."

With this new hope she once again concentrated on her act. She paid special attention to Chanan for he was Manpreet's brother. The shy boy continued to admire her with his big brown eyes full of happiness. It was Chanan's lucky day. He was now in love with Simran and that too with no effort. He forgot all about Sweetie and was thinking how his ordinary life had somehow turned into this great love story the moment he laid his eyes on Simran. Simran was a lustrous diamond that shone and out dazzled everyone – compared to her Sweetie was a jagged rock. _She teased him and favored him and asked him questions and answered them herself, so that he appeared very clever without having to say a word. The other boys were puzzled and annoyed by her obvious interest in him, for they knew Chanan was too shy to hitch two consecutive words together, and politeness was being severely strained to conceal their growing rage_.

When almost everyone had finished eating even the slowest and the pickiest of the kids, Simran hoped Indira would rise and suggest the ladies to rest inside the house. It was nearly two thirty and was getting very hot now but Indira who had worked her butt off to make this gathering a success continued to sit under the shade of the large neem tree, talking loudly to a deaf old man from Phagwara.

The heat combined with all the food everyone consumed caused a lull to float about in the crowd. The chatter and laughter seemed to have died. Everyone was now waiting for Indira. In this post lunch moment they all seemed peaceful and content only the young men seemed to have the energy to roam about and converse in soft voices. Not even they seemed as lively as they were in the morning.

The stalls had all closed down – even as the lunch was taking place. And now that the tables were being cleared away, the last of stalls – the _Kulfi*_ stalls were closing. The floating lull had now transformed the lively gathering into a sleepy silent one – and Indira rose.

_Finally!_

Then there was a loud, "Pray for a peaceable settlement! We are not cowards!"  
Gurdeep Hora had spoken these lines in the loudest of voice and was now red with anger and all the rum and whiskey he had chugged down. This seemed to have broken the spell – the atmosphere was now charged. All the men quickly bolted up to join Gurdeep.

Simran was aghast, _now we'll have to sit through this and this could go on till mid-night. _Her father alone could speak on the topic for hours. There had been no discussion on the war till now – thanks to Mr Wahla's request. The topic would bore the ladies and it wasn't something to talk about during a festival. But now, thanks to her father, every man present forgot the host's request.

"Of course we'll fight—" "Indian skum—" "We'll teach them a lesson—" "Why, one Punjabi can—" "Peaceably? They won't let us go in peace—" "No, look how Mr Gandhi insulted our leaders!" "Yes, kept them hanging around for weeks-" "They want war; we'll make them sick of war—" And above all the voices, Gurdeep's boomed. He was having an excellent time, but not his daughter.

All these talks which had previously bored Simran were now downright torture. Earlier it had been the sheer number of times it had been said that had bored her but now it meant that the men folk would sit and argue about it for ages and she won't get to talk to Joy alone. And she just couldn't bear her plans failing again.

All the other men who sat around her had left to talk about the so called war– all except Chanan Hundal. He suddenly realised he was all alone with Simran so he spoke:

"Simran, - I – Baisaikhi in Jalandhar is a lot different. We don't gather in a place we have processions: parades with flags, music, dancing and chanting. You will like it a lot. Of course you can also help with Melly – I mean Manpreet and the other ladies serve milk and water to the people on the road."

He waited for Simran to say something, when she didn't he continued.

"I'm thinking of going to Amritsar. Would you be upset if I left?"

Simran wanted to roll her eyes; Amritsar wasn't that far – he spoke of it as if he was going there to never come back, what a stupid fool! Instead she said_, "I'll cry into my pillow all night."_

She was being sarcastic of course however Chanan thought she meant it and blushed. He tenderly took her hand into hers – blushing all this while – and then gave it a little squeeze.

"Would you pray for me?"

"Yes, I'll go to the gurudwara every day and pray for you," Simran mentally prayed to be rescued from this conversation.

Chanan couldn't believe his ears. Simran Hora the most popular girl ever admitted she cared for him, why else would she pray for him or be upset when he'd be gone. "Now is the time to ask her, we are alone – it's now or never," he gave himself a pep talk and sucked in some air.

"Simran – I need to tell you this – I love you."

"Oh," said Simran distractedly, she was trying to overhear what Joy and Manpreet was talking about, Joy hadn't left her side to talk with other men about the war.

"Yes," whispered Chanan ecstatic for she had neither laughed nor fainted, "I love you! You are the most— beautiful girl I've ever known and the sweetest and the kindest, and I love you with all my heart. I cannot hope that you could love anyone like me but, if you can give me any encouragement, I will do anything in the world to make you love me. I will—" He paused thinking about the various thinks he could say – at this moment he could bring her the moon had she asked for it. There was nothing he couldn't really do for her so he simply said: "marry me."

"Marry," was all Simran heard and she came back to the earth with a thump. She had been thing of Joy and marrying him so she looked at Chanan with poorly concealed irritation. Why must this stupid fool – when she was – Oh Joy why can't this be you!

_She looked into the pleading brown eyes and she saw none of the beauty of a shy boy's first love, of the adoration of an ideal come true or the wild happiness and tenderness that were sweeping through him like a flame. _

Instead she saw a stupid boy – of about 24 years of age, red faced. He looked so silly that Simran almost wished to tell him how silly he looked. But automatically, the words Erleen had taught her issued from her mouth with her eyes downcast, from force of long habit, she murmured: "_this is all so sudden that I do not know what to say_."

That was a nice way of keeping a man on the hook and making sure their ego wasn't hurt. Chanan replied, "I would wait forever! I wouldn't want you unless you were quite sure," just as it was expected from someone as stupid, thought Simran.

Then he stupidly added, "Simran, you will think about it? Right?"

"Um," said Siman, still concentrating on Joy.

If only Chanan would shut up for a moment, perhaps she could hear what they were saying. She wanted to hear what they said. What did Manpreet say to him that brought that look of interest to his eyes?

Chanan's words blurred the voices she strained to hear.

"Quiet!" she hissed not even looking at him.

Startled, at first embarrassed, Charles turned red at the snub and then, seeing how her eyes were fastened on his sister, he smiled. Simran was afraid someone might hear his words. He felt a surge of masculinity such as he had never experienced, for this was the first time in his life that he had ever embarrassed any girl. The thrill was intoxicating. He arranged his face in what he fancied was an expression of careless unconcern.

Simran didn't notice all that, for she could hear clearly the sweet voice belonging to Manpreet: "I fear I cannot agree with you about _Sharad Joshi's*_ works. I prefer _Premchand*_–"

Simran sighed in relief. She would have worried had Marnpreet said something on the lines of –'how wonderful you are!' or 'how do you think of such stuff!' Instead Manpreet was acting all know-it-all and men hated that. The best way to talk to a guy was to talk about them, stroke their egos and then slowly lead the conversation around you and then keep it there. Suddenly there was hope and hope gave her happiness. She was so happy that she turned to look at Chanan and beamed at him. Chanan took it as the evidence of her affection and gently squeezed her hand.

"Joy, you haven't said a word," Jamail Toor's voice issued from the group of shouting men, "let us hear our captain."

With a soft apology to Manpreet Joy rose, everyone became quiet. Even the older men stopped to listen to him and Simran thought there was no one as handsome.

"I thought you know my opinion," said Joy, "I'm fighting." There was a cheer when he said that. And then he added, "But like father – I hope for a peaceful settlement." A babble of protests issued from the young men, and Joy held up his hand – "Yes, Yes I know we have been insulted and lied to, our language not given recognition, our religion not given that status – as given to the others. On top of that they have trifurcated the state of Punjab – I know all that. But war is not the answer. _Most of the misery of the world has been caused by wars. And when the wars were over, no one ever knew what they were all about._"

Simran sighed. Luckily everyone knew that Joy was no coward otherwise these statements would have been thought of as acts of cowardice. Even as she thought this, the boys were in uproar – they didn't like what Joy had just said.

While all the men ranted animatedly, there was only one who seemed calm. Simran's eyes turned to Rehat Bhuttar, who leaned against a tree. He stood alone, since Mr Wahla had left his side, and had said nothing. _The red lips under the close-clipped black mustache curled down and there was a glint of amused contempt in his black eyes—contempt, as if he listened to the bragging of children_. A very disagreeable smile, Simran thought. He listened quietly until Santa Toor, repeated: "Why, we could end them in a month! Sikhs always fight better; we are a martial race—"

"My apologies," said Rehat Bhuttar, "for interrupting. But may I ask you all something?"

His manner of speaking was contemptuous, but the scorn was well masked with politeness that somehow seemed to be spoofing them. The group turned toward him and accorded him the politeness always due an outsider.

"Have you ever wondered about refineries? How there is not a single refinery in Punjab? Or the fact we don't have a coast line, and all our supplies come from India – or the fact that we are right next to Pakistan, who can attack us anytime in case we get free of the Indian Union. But of course – you must have thought of all that!"

All of a sudden the atmosphere changed yet again – the temperature dropped a several degrees and everybody's blood boiled. This man was implying that everybody was a fool! Instantly Mr Wahla came to stand beside him, almost shielding him from the crowd.

"The trouble with us Punjabi's is," Rehat Bhuttar went on as if he sensed no change, "that we don't think before we act. They have factories, refineries – the entire Indian Army will back them, even some of our own will support them. Our leaders – who we blindly follow, they go ahead and claim that they neither support nor oppose the Khalistan movement. What do we have, our farms that are now a lot more productive thanks to the Green Revolution, that and arrogance. Green Revolution did actually do more damage than good. It gave us money – more than we had ever seen – more than we could spend. So while our generation got plagued by drugs, you are getting eaten up by religious zeal."

There was a loud silence – no one spoke for a moment, no one could think of anything to say. They were all seething, even Simran – but for all her anger, her practical mind agreed with the man, and it sounded like common sense. She had never seen a refinery but she knew that without petrol and diesel cars and railways would fail. They would be totally dependent on thermal power plants – without coast lines there would be no import or export.

Santa Toor came forward towards Rehat Bhuttar, his twin Banta trailing close behind. The ladies held their breath.

"What are you trying to imply," said Santa.

"I think you already know that," said Rehat Bhuttar calmly, "Mr Wahla, I'd like to see your library now, if you don't mind. I believe you have a good collection of Persian poems there."

Then he gave the crowd a mock bow, a smirk and left with Mr Wahla who was thankful to take him away. A startled silence settled down on everyone again. Everyone too bewildered to react. Then a buzzing started, and Santa made a move to follow Mr Bhuttar. At the same time Indira Wahla rose tiredly and went towards Santa. Simran couldn't hear what she said to him but it was calming him down. She had a slight smile on her face that reached her eyes and lit up her face. She – at that moment – was beautiful. Only Santa was too busy seething to notice.

_So she does love him, _Simran realised and her conscience poked her. Had she not flirted with Santa he would be married to Indira by now. But it isn't her fault, that Indira is plain and boring – she made no effort to get Santa back, so it is Indira's fault too, Simran argued with her conscience.

Finally Santa calmed down, he gave Indira an unwilling smile, still not quite comfortable in her presence, and nodded his head. Probably Indira had been pleading with him not to make trouble. With that done Indira signalled the lunch over – rest time for everyone.

One by one, they ladies grouped together, the matron's gathered their kids and ordered around their servants. The young girls flocked together, chatting and gossiping – as they all went up to the bedrooms upstairs to take a nap.

Simran quietly tiptoed out of her room, making sure Sukhman, Kiran and Krati who were sleeping with her where fast asleep. Then she peaked into the room next to her, to make sure Manpreet was fast asleep with Sweetie, Harjyot Toor and Sahiba Maan. She then quickly made way towards the stairs and peeked out of the window to spy on the men who were still outside in the grounds, drinking. Her eyes searched for Joy but couldn't find him. She wondered what would happen if someone was to see her here, all alone by herself when she was supposed to napping – what excuse would she give to them. She could go back upstairs or she could go on and take the risk.

Just then she heard Joy's voice – coming from the entrance porch – he was bidding good byes to all the people who had to leave early. That decided for her. She looked about from her position in the landing and realised that the library was close enough from the main doors. Her position in the landing was at twin risks – from somebody climbing up the stairs and from some girl – like Indira, going down to do some errands.

She climbed down the stairs quickly and almost as gracefully as a cat, then walked briskly towards the library and hid behind the door, trying to calm down and even her breathing. It won't do good to appear too shaken in front of Joy, she thought. She closed the door – save for a crack from which she peered. As she waited for Joy, she thought how unromantic a place it was – the library. Books always upset her and the sheer amount of books in that room was downright depressing. The library was in semidarkness – a shadowy, murky sort of place, the furniture was placed away from her. It had many tall backed chairs and a seven feet long sofa all surrounding a table.

Simran tried to remember her plan, all the while looking out for Joy through the crack, _was she to tell him something or was he to – oh what was it! _Even as she was trying to remember she heard approaching footsteps. She just couldn't think. She loved him and that was all she knew. Maybe if she prayed, "Oh babaji," she whispered and then –

"Simran, what are you doing here," Joy Wahla was standing in front of her – his curly black hair, handsome face and tall body. He stood looking at her through the partly opened door, a puzzled smile on his face, "who are you hiding from, Chanan or the twins?"

She couldn't think of anything to say her mouth had suddenly gone dry. So he had noticed how the men had hovered about her! She didn't speak, but she put out a hand and pulled him into the room. He entered, confused but interested. There was uneasiness about her, a glow in her eyes that he had never seen before. Automatically he closed the door behind him and took her hand.

"What is it," Joy whispered, "Some secret, something to tell me?"

"Well, Joy, Joy...! I love you," she blurted it out without even realising what she was saying. She had been thinking this, and as soon as she found her lost voice she thought it aloud. No longer had she cared about the plan, it did not matter.

A silence streached between them, _a silence so acute it seemed that neither of them even breathed. Then the trembling fell away from her, as happiness and pride surged through her. Why hadn't she done this before? How much simpler than all the ladylike manoeuvrings she had been taught. And then her eyes sought his._

He wasn't happy as she had expected instead he seemed dismayed, astonished and something more— pity perhaps. Simran didn't understand then his face became an emotionless mask and he smiled politely:

"_Well, isn't it enough that you collected every other man's heart today? You always had mine."_

Now Simran was even more confused, Joy was acting as if she was flirting with him but surely he knew that wasn't so. They were in the library all alone, when they were not supposed to.

"Joy, do I really have your heart," said Simran in a quiet voice – almost pleading with him, "Oh, Joy, I lo—" His finger went across her lips, silencing her. The mask was gone. "You should not say these things! You don't mean them. You'll hate me for hearing them."

"I could never hate you, I love you don't you love me. Tell me you do. Surely you care?"

An uncomfortable silence spread between them and Simran once again asked, "you care don't you?"

"Yes," he replied dully, "I do care."

He had said it as if he hated her. Simran didn't understand, she plucked his sleeve and then:

"_Oh can't we go away and forget we ever said these things?"_

"_No," she whispered. "I can't. What do you mean? Don't you want to—to marry me?"  
He replied, "I'm going to marry Manpreet."_

"But what about me, I thought you loved me."

"I do. How can I not! _You have all the passion for life that I lack. _But love isn't enough to make a marriage successful. _You would want all of a man, his body, his heart, his soul, his thoughts. And if you did not have them, you would be miserable. And I couldn't give you all of me. I couldn't give all of me to anyone. And I would not want all of your mind and your soul. And you would be hurt, and then you would come to hate me—how bitterly! You would hate the books I read and the music I loved, because they took me away from you even for a moment. And I—perhaps I—"_

"_Do you love Manpreet?"_

"She's like me, we understand each other."

"Why don't you say tell the truth? You're afraid to marry me. You'd rather live with that silly little fool who can't open her mouth except to say "yes", "no", and raise a houseful of brats just like her!"

"You don't know Manpreet, Simran. She isn't like that and you must not speak about her so," Joy said this evenly but Simran could see he was a little miffed and that made her fume. _How dare he! _

"Who the heck are you to give me a lecture on moral science? You – you made me believe that you will marry me – you lead me on –"

"Be reasonable, did I ever say –"

She did not want to be reasonable; though she knew what he said was true. He had never said the actual words, nor had crossed their line of friendship. Oh here she was chasing him and he won't have her – he preferred Manpreet over her. It caused her to snap.

"I hate you," she hissed, "hate you! He tried to come closer, to soothe her and pacify her but she slapped him. The smack echoed in the library and the fire in her heart cooled, only pain remained.

Silence once again surrounded the two of them. The red palm print showed plainly on his tired face. _He said nothing but lifted her limp hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he was gone before she could speak again, closing the door softly behind him._

Simran sat down on the floor, trying to understand what just happened. Her new farshi pyjama's skirts touched the floor and collected dust but she didn't care. He was gone now. The sound of his footsteps going away had died too, he was gone. She had lost him forever.

Now he would hate her and every time he looked at her he would remember how she threw herself at him. "I'm as bad as Sweetie," she thought suddenly, and remembered how everyone and she more than anyone else, had laughed at her and called her desperate.

Now everyone would call her, Simran, desperate too. They would make fun of her. Vanity stronger than love fuelled her rage and suddenly she was burning, her blood boiling and her vision hazy. Her hand dropped to a small terracotta pot on the window sill and she threw it with all her might. It landed on the opposite wall shattering into several pieces right beside the wide sofa.

"Is the government shelling us?" A amused voice from the sofa reached her ears. Instantly she was wary. A man seemed to materialise out of nowhere from the sofa much like the genie in the Arabian Night stories. He bowed with his hands folded, that's when she realised this man was none other than Rehat Bhutta.

"_It is bad enough to have an afternoon nap disturbed by such a passage as I've been forced to hear, but why should my life be endangered?"  
_He was real not a djinn and he had heard everything – Simran was now scared but summoning her dignity or what was left of it she said, "Sir, you should have made your presence known."

"_Eavesdroppers—" she began furiously. _

"_Eavesdroppers often hear highly entertaining and instructive things," he grinned. "From a long experience in eavesdropping, I—" _

"_Sir," she said, "you are no gentleman!"_

"_An apt observation," he answered airily. "And, you, Miss, are no lady. But ladies have never held any charm for me. And I hope to see more of you when you're free of the spell of the elegant Mr Wahla. He doesn't strike me as half good enough for a girl of your...what was it...your passion for living?" _

"He is twice the man you'll ever be!"

"And here I thought you hated him."

Simran wanted to claw him, pull out his eyes and erase his smirk. Instead she walked out of the room with as much dignity as could gather. Then climbed up the steps so fast she felt dizzy, she rested a bit on the landing, holding the banister for support taking from it strength. Her vision blurred, heart thudded and fear bloomed into her bosom. What if someone was to see her here? What if someone was to find out? She hated Joy and that horrible Bhuttar guy and the jealous girls who were probably dying to get some dirt about her on their hands. They must not find out, no, they must never find out! She would quickly slip into her room and no one would know.

Her vision came back, the dizziness receded and she claimed up, back to her room but this time slowly. She took some time to reach her room and by that time her heart beat had turned normal. She was about to enter her room when, she heard a low whisper from the other room.

"I think Simran acted as wanton as a girl could act today," Sweetie Wahla spoke these lines. Once again Simran's heart started beating fast, she clutched it and thought of ignoring her but then a memory came back to her 'Eavesdroppers often hear highly instructive things.' She almost wanted to go in and embarrass Sweetie but another voice made her stop, it was Manpreet Hundal's.

"Don't be unkind. She's just high spirited and vivacious. I thought her most charming."

Simran couldn't believe her ears. This must be her trick, she thought, to make others think she is so kind. Well I'm not falling for that, she thought.

"You must be blind then," said Sweetie sourly.

"Quite or someone might hear you," Sahiba Maan voice was heard warning her.

"She was trying to get everyman's attention – be it Fatah Beer Kohli, her sister's unofficial fiancé or the Pahwah boys who are your and your sisters'. Then she was obviously trying to snare Chanan as if! We all know he and I are practically engaged."

"I'll be glad to have you as my sister-in-law," murmured Manpreet.

"I wish I could say the same but I'll have Simran. Santa is really serious about her, although I don't see her giving a damn about him all the same its either Santa or Banta she'll pick," Harjyot Toor said miserably.

"If you ask me there is just one man about whom she cares," Sweetie said excitedly, "And that is Joy."

A buzz of whispering issued from the room and for the second time in the day Simran felt faint. However could she know! Simran had underestimated her. While everyone was fooled by her happy act of the morning, Sweetie had read between the lines, and had interpreted her various glances to Joy correctly. Now she would really become a laughing stock, unless she did something fast.

"Sweetie, you know that can't be true. And it's so unkind," Manpreet's voice full of reproach, came over the tide of whispering.

"It is true, and if you weren't always so busy looking for the good in people that haven't got any, you'd see it too. It serves her right. All she has ever done has been to stir up trouble. You know mighty well she took Santa from Indira and she didn't want him. And today she tried to take Mr Kohli and Joy and Chanan—"

Simran was rooted to the spot as she heard other girls join in with Sweetie telling Manpreet about how horrible she was. She wanted to kill them all, burn this beautiful house she loved so much and burn them all with it.

Instead she turned away from them, and looked out of the window outside. A man had just come up the driveway and he had dismounted his horse and then quickly went to Mr Wahla. Whatever he said caused quite an upheaval. All the men seemed to be in some kind of frenzy. She watched it all for quite some time, how great it was to be man, she thought, to be so free – as free as a woman can never be.

"Do you know what's happened?" Chanan Hundal cried, even before he reached her, "have you heard? Pal just rode over from Ramamandi with the news!"

He paused, panting, as he came up beside her. She said nothing and only stared at him.

"The Defence Minister was bombed. He was travelling from Chandigarh to Amritsar. The Prime Minister has declared a state of emergency. This means war – I'll be going off to Amritsar immediately."

Simran said nothing, she didn't care – she didn't understand what this implied. Her reputation was ruined. Her face paper white and eyes as hard as stones – Chanan thought they were like aquamarines or turquoises.

"Have I upset you, Simran," Chanan spoke gently, "I should have put it more delicately. Do you feel fain? Should I get you some water?"

"No," said Simran with a small delicate smile that she could somehow coax herself to give to Chanan.

"Let us go sit somewhere," he requested, taking her arm. He walked with her to the nearest divan and helped her sit; he handled her so carefully as if she was some porcelain doll. Once seated he thought, how fragile she was – war and fighting seemed to make her upset and feel faint, this made him feel so masculine. And she had looked at him so oddly, at lunch she had singled him out when handing out her affection. Could it be she is upset because he was going away? His mind tried quickly to dismiss the notion but his heart said otherwise. It was convinced that Simran loved him as much as he loved her and this was the reason she was white and this was the reason why she looked at him through fluttering lashes.

Simran meanwhile was thinking fast. This man was rich, he had a lot of money and his parents were dead, so no in-laws to bother her. His only family was his sister Manpreet who would soon get married to Joy and then cease to be a bother. All in all it was a good match and it would kill Sweetie. Chanan was her unofficial fiancé and if she, Simran, was marry him Sweetie will remain unmarried all her life – nobody would marry her, not with her plain features and desperate ways. And they will all think they were wrong about me and Joy, that I didn't care for him after all.

Chanan meanwhile after a few failed attempts, finally managed to say something, "The fight will be over in a month, so there isn't really much to worry about. There won't be much of a dinner gathering tonight, the guys will have to go to Ramamandi – I believe that it wasn't really needed, just to announce Joy and Manpreet's engagement and ring ceremony. But everyone already knows – all the same it'll be a shame for the Toor girls prepared a _Gidda_* for the occasion on Indira and Sweetie's request – it ought to be them dancing but Indira was busy with the preparations and Sweetie I guess would dance with them."

"Oh," was Simran's simple reply to his rambling but she fluttered her lashes attractively.

"Will you wait for me?"

"I don't want to wait, Chanan. I think you should go find my father."

"You – what, you want me to – you will marry me?" Chanan couldn't believe his ears; he gave her an incredulous look.

Simran gave a small nod but said nothing. Yet for Chanan it was enough, he wanted to sing and dance and recite odes of love. Instead he settled for running away to find her father but not before reassuring her he'll be back.

As she watched his retreating back Simran realised with a start what she had done. Her warm passionate love battled with her cool practical mind. She wanted to stop Chanan, take back her words and with every step he took – Simran could see Joy drifting away further and further.

**A/n:** Chapter V done with 9888 words! This is like almost twice as long as the last chapter, no wonder it took me so much time to update. Which brings me to the question I want to ask you guys? Should my adaptation have the same chapters as the original book or should I divide and / or merge as I see fit?

So there is something wrong with my ear – the doctor says there might be some fluid inside it or negative pressure. This is why I don't like air travel, but it is the fastest way of travelling.

Deep Forest Green: The idea of having GWTW set during the Raj seemed brilliant at first. I could almost see Scarlett as some aristocratic girl – her father maybe the prime minister or a chief noble, the Hamiltons and the Wilkes as royals – the Nawabs or maharajahs and Rhett as some Anglo Indian mercenary. It all seems great till you hit a cultural snag – two in our case:

The purdah system –Men and women did not see each other or interact with each other during the Raj. Even if Scarlett defies convention I cannot imagine her doing so when her mother was alive; Melly and Ashley would never ever do it.

Polygamy – during the raj, men were allowed to have many wives be it hindu or muslim. If you can afford more than one wife you can have them. Ashley is rich, at least to begin with. So why won't he marry both Scarlett and Melly when he can – that will end all his problems + it's an honourable thing to do, everyone who was anyone married more than once in those times.

**Footnote:**

Papri Chat – an Indian savoury snack

Rajma Chawal – Rajma is a kidney bean dish prepared in a gravy of tomatoes, onion garlic etc. served with Chawal or rice

Kulchha Chhole – Kuchha is a kind of bread and Chhole is a dish made of chickpea.

Tikka – grilled stuff (chicken, fish, paneer, potato)

Pinni/halwa – Indian sweet dish

Begums – Female Muslim rulers or consorts

Bee-ji – a affectionate way to address your grandma in Punjabi

Salwar Kurta – Indian Ethnic wear

Kulfi – frozen desert, made from milk flavoured sometimes with saffron, and dry fruits.

Sharad Joshi and Premchand – Hindi Authors

Gidda – A Punjabi dance performed by women.

There may be some spelling and grammatical errors. Also please review.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The following is a non-profit fan based parody. Gone with the wind is owned by Margaret Mitchell and Mitchell estate. Also this is not meant to offend anyone.

Summary: Indian adaptation of the American Classic Gone with the Wind. Set in Punjab this is story of a headstrong lady Simran (Scarlett) who is infatuated with her neighbor. Meanwhile a roguish man is equally attracted to her. Leave a review :)

**A/n:** I'd like to thank **Joyce LaKee **for her review**.**

**Previously:**

As she watched his retreating back Simran realised with a start what she had done. Her warm passionate love battled with her cool practical mind. She wanted to stop Chanan, take back her words and with every step he took – Simran could see Joy drifting away further and further.

**Chapter VI**

Simran saw herself dressed in a bright red _lehnga-choli*_ embroidered with gold and silver threads, her train was a deep reddish golden brocade, her veil made of a translucent cloth, matching her bright red sari.

The hustle and bustle surrounding her was dream like. Everyone was running about – only she was still. Once all the jewels were adorned – she was taken in front of a full length mirror, she was shocked to see the glittering woman in the mirror who was equally shocked to see her. This woman had none of her haughty carefree expression instead she looked worried and scared, as if caught up in a nightmare.

This is a nightmare Simran convinced herself. This cannot be real, she told herself over and over. All these heavy clothes – provided by the Hundals for their _bahu* _- their son's bride, this heavy old fashioned jewellery – of diamonds and emeralds belonging to her mother and grandmother – now hers for there was an acute shortage of time. Indian weddings are all about a lot of traditions and rituals, all of which need a lot of preparation. The deadline Simran set for her mother was too short.

Two weeks. Usually what would usually take a year's time or at least six months was to be done in two weeks.

Erllen had advised her to wait, not only because of the preparations but also so that Simran might get some time to think about what she was doing. But Simran simply turned a deaf ear and simply pouted. Marry she would! Within two weeks.

Learning that Joy's wedding had been moved up from the autumn to the first of May, she set the date of her wedding for the day before his. Chanan Hundal on his part supported his future wife. He too wanted to get married as soon as possible. The shy lawyer – soon to be husband – spoke eloquently to Erleen, using every trick to try and convince her.

Simran's father Gurdeep was extremely pleased with her. She was marrying both money and a good family name. He had long forgotten about her and Joy, dismissing it as childish infatuation. He too supported the idea of a quick marriage. So it was to be the two bull headed father and daughter duo with some help from Mr Hundal (MA LLB, from _Allahabad University_*) won the case against Erleen and Dai.

As _Jaimal_ *- the ceremonial exchange of flower garlands concluded, she wanted to scream in terror but she was shepherded away inside (to prepare her for the main wedding ceremony) even as everyone went to the massive feast organised their honour, by her father. Only Chanan, his sister Manpreet & Joy remained – she had been with Joy all this while.

It was soon time for the main ceremony – the sacred fire was to be circumambulated four times, by then most guests had left, after having dinner. The guests from Atlanta had left for their rooms in Taxila and Barahkhamba to rest for there was another wedding next day.

Only the close family members – namely Gurdeep, Erleen, Kiran, Sukhman, Sara bua*, Joy & Manpreet had stayed on.

The afternoon was warm and dry. In all her heavy clothes Simran felt faint – but this was a nightmare, a vivid lucid one at that.

A cool and windy evening followed the wedding, and a bunch of games followed. Traditionally they were played the next day but time was something they didn't have anymore. Simran didn't enjoy them one bit – tired as she was, she played half-heartedly and still won. Chanan wasn't trying much, he was doing what traditionally is still done, drag the game for as long as possible.

After a quick round of games dinner was served, all the guests – even the ones who went back home re-joined them and gave them their complements.

Scarlet was in her room that was dimly lit up. Still decked in emeralds and diamonds, she sat in her bed apprehensive, the red translucent georgette veil still covering her face. Her mother had told her something that seemed unbelievable but mother never lied. She kept looking at the door nervously.

Finally the door opened and in came Chanan, he looked nervous too. He came close to her and sat beside her in a rather awkward way. He opened his mouth to say something but words failed him. Then in a rather daring move his hands approached her. They shook a bit as he touched her. She trembled too.

Chanan took of her veil and brocade train, and then he moved on to the jewellery. He was clumsy, occasionally Simran winced in pain. She seemed to have lost her voice so stunned was she by the predicament her life had become. She was numb, everything seemed unreal.

As Chanan's fumbling hands moved to the buttons of her blouse, the numbness seemed to ebb away, reality was stark, and her blouse was half open- her breasts semi exposed.

Her mantra this is a nightmare – this is not real did not seem to work. So she screamed, as loud as she could and then woke up.

Simran was home, in her bed alone. It was all a dream; she thought and sighed in relief. Then a wailing baby was heard.

'Why is there a baby in her room,' she thought. 'Oh right,' she answered herself – then went back to bed ignoring the noise. Somebody, mother or Dai would tend to him as they always did. Maybe she was still trapped in that nightmare – she really needed to wake up now.

But even as she thought this Simran was recalling the chain of events that had happened so far: her wedding night had proceeded almost like the nightmare only Sirman had not screamed. She had threatened to do so and a reluctant but none the less relieved Chanan had left her bed to sleep in couch.

The next night was different – Simran was so depressed that she let Chanan consummate their marriage. Manpreet's plain face had glowed with a sweet bliss that was absent in Simran's the day before. Marital bliss had made her so pretty – that her beauty rivalled Simran's ice-cold looks.

Simran had to stay all through the wedding, now that she was Chanan's wife and Manpreet's _parjayji*_. So when Sukhman and Kiran left for home, tired Simran simply couldn't.

The night was long and Joy didn't speak to her at all. Manpreet did quite so many times about trivial things. She was sweet – too sweet for Simran's liking.

This wedding had seemed even more unreal and depressing and when it all ended Simran found comfort in the arms of her new husband.

A week after the wedding Charles left, and two weeks after every able bodied man in the country left too. In these two weeks, Simran never saw Joy alone- always with Manpreet. Even as he was leaving, when he stopped by to see her on his way to the train, she did not have a private word. Manpreet, her head covered like a typical dignified married lady, hung on his arm.

Joy's farewell was cold too, it was polite but all this while he was coolly aloof. Manpreet meanwhile was warm, or at least she pretended to be, though Simran caustically. She gave her a bone crushing hug and said, "You will come to Jalandhar and visit me and buaji, won't you? Oh, please do come! We want to know Chanan's wife better."

"I will think about it, Manpreet," Simran had told her stiffly.

"Oh do that, dear. And you don't have to call me Manpreet – now that we are sisters you can call me Mally, just like everyone else."

Five weeks passed during Chanan and Simran corresponded in letters, that is to say – Chanan wrote Simran sweet loving letters telling her about his love for her, his plans of the future, his family that Simran did not know much about. Simran replied to them coolly with to the point precise words, and that too due to prompting a by her mother.

In the seventh week, a telegram came from Amritsar, and then a letter of condolence. Chanan was dead. He had died of pneumonia, following measles. In due time, Chanan's son was born. He was named Waris Shah –after Chanan's favourite poet Waris Shah. The name was fitting for Waris meant heir and Waris Shah Hundal was to be the only heir of Chanan and the Hundal family.

Gurdeep was crazy about his grandson; he had no sons but now that he said it didn't matter now, that he would leave his land to Waris. Erleen and Kiran, grandmother and aunt to the baby were adequately affectionate. Even Sukhman would occasionally play with the baby, like all girls she found babies cute. Only Simran, the mother felt nothing but irritation when she looked at Waris Shah.

She had not desired the baby and she resented him and it seemed to her as if he could not possibly belong to her. The boy looked nothing like her, his brown curls and chocolate brown eyes were exactly like his dead father. The man who she wanted to forget but Waris Shah here she simply could not.

Every morning she felt as if she was young and unmarried again but then the baby would wail and she would remember everything and be miserable. Her spirits dropped, for all young abled men had left the country, the stupid resistance had taken them away, – celebrations were few and subdued. They weren't celebrated with the same fervour as before. Nothing was the same without the men.

Boredom and depression made her listless. Her parents worried, tried everything they could to make her happy but failed. Finally Erleen, in an unusual move got old Dr Pahwa to have a look at Simran. Erleen knew that asking the doctor would officially label their daughter depressed and that they lived in a place where the stigma attached to mental illness was great.

Dr Pahwa gave her a tonic of Vitamin D, suggested more activities out in the sun but that didn't help at all. He privately told Erleen that post-natal depression was a common thing and with her husband dead it simply added to her miseries making her more depressed.

"If it keeps up Mrs Hora, I'm afraid she'll waste away," said the doctor, echoing her worst fears.

Erleen instantly packed Simran's bags and sent her off to first Amritsar, where all the talk of independence and religion bored Simran like hell, then Chandigarh to her grandpa.

Chandigarh was even more boring, the dull city with the same brick wall elevation – cold and foreign exposed RCC was almost as upsetting as her grandfather. She had come back within a week looking even more depressed.

Erleen was sitting in the parlour, early in the morning. Her work had doubled due to the resistance. Prices of everything was rising – on top of that, once every month, Fatah Beer Singh would come asking for supplies for the resistance. These occasions were what Sukhman lived for.

Simran on the other hand would be morose, if only there was a way to make her happy, she though. There was one thing, something she hadn't considered until now. Chanan Hundal's bua Sara Hundal wrote to her almost every day asking her to send Simran over.

She and Manpreet were alone in a big house "_and without male protection_," she wrote, "Of course, there is my brother Harjit but he does not live with us. Mally and I would feel so much easier and safer if Simran were with us. Three lonely women are better than two. And, of course, Mally and I are longing to see Chanan's baby, Waris Shah… "

Next day Simran set from her home to the city of Jalandhar where Mally and Sara lived with baby Waris Shah and Pinky, as his aya. Gurdeep had given her Rs 1000 and gifts for all Sara bua and Mally, Erleen and Dai had given her a list of do's and don'ts – both nervous for Simran was going to travel alone but there was nothing to do about it. Everyone was too busy to accompany her for the trip.

Simran on her part did not especially want to go. She thought Sara Bua was stupid and the very idea of living under the same roof with Joy's wife was disgusting. But being there she knew she'll get more news of Joy – something she could not get from Sweetie and Indira, so she went without creating a fuss.

**A/n:** Chapter VI done. There aren't many reviews coming so I've slowed down the work and RL is also responsible for this, now that a new semester has started.

**Footnote:**

Lehnga choli – it's an Indian traditional dress, Lehnga is like this long skirt and choli is a short top.

Allahabad University – long time ago is was supposed to be a really great university, so good that it was dubbed, Oxfort of the east

Bua – Paternal Aunt

There may be some spelling and grammatical errors. Also please review.


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